


Rip It Up and Start Again

by KittyDorkling



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Blow Jobs, Character Death, Crowley Has Long Hair (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Was Raphael Before Falling (Good Omens), Deus Ex Machina, F/M, Happily Ever After, Hellfire, I'm Bad At Tagging, M/M, Mutual Pining, Quite extraordinary amounts of alcohol, Rimming, Sex in the Bookshop, Slow Burn, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), THERE IS SEX AT LAST, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, What Happened Next, a few issues left to resolve, apparent peril, basically just the author's wish fulfilment fic, completed work, don't worry you won't miss him, forgot to add these tags before whoops, mention of snake biology and we all know what THAT means, or rather permanent discorporation, the sex is in ch 14 if you want to skip to the smut, there is also sex in ch 20, there is no evidence to suggest Warlock is a nice child, there will be sex at some point, they kiss, uhh anything else? Let me know if so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-02
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2020-07-29 15:42:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 66,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20084674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittyDorkling/pseuds/KittyDorkling
Summary: After the Apocalypse is averted, an Angel and a Demon go on holiday, which turns into something a bit like retirement... or it would, if there weren't so much unfinished business following them around...In which 6,000 years of pining are finally, eventually, resolved, new purpose is found, and loose ends are tied up for good.  Endless thanks are due toMcManatea,Yubi,Mith,HoomhumandRuto, for their wonderful cheerleading encouragement.  :)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

>   
(Now with art by the AMAZING AND TALENTED [Mith](https://archiveofourown.org/users/liasangria/pseuds/mithrilbikini))

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Thanks to Adam, everything was back to normal. And that was all Aziraphale wanted, wasn’t it?_
> 
> _So he got on with it. He tidied books, rearranged shelves and swept floors. He found a nice spot to display the Richmal Cromptons._
> 
> _And on the seventh day, he shut the shop, locked it, and went to see Crowley._

\---

The habits of 6,000 years are not broken in a day. Even very big changes often express themselves incrementally. You might call it a “slow burn” effect.

Aziraphale returned to his bookshop at last on Sunday evening, pleasantly full of champagne and buoyed by victory, albeit a victory he couldn’t quite comprehend yet. He had been eager to see the dear place again, and inspect the Richmal Cromptons Crowley mentioned. There were also a full back-issue collection of New Aquarian magazines, and a glass dish of sherbet lemons on the counter beside the till. It was a nice touch.

He had switched on the lamp above his desk, set the needle onto a recording disk of Schubert's Symphony No. 9, and begun to read, starting with “William Goes to the Pictures”. 

By the time he finished “William the Lawless”, the sun was peeking through the windows and it was time to open the shop. Aziraphale drew the blinds and flipped the sign to open. It was a beautiful day outside, the sort of particularly golden late August morning that seemed all the brighter for its promise that the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness was on its way, but not yet here. Inside the shop remained dim, a few dust motes dancing in the rare shaft of sunlight that managed to squeeze its way in through the books. It was the way Aziraphale had always liked the place, an antidote to Heaven’s blinding radiance.

A customer wandered in, and then another. The sound of them shuffling quietly amongst the shelves was the usual background noise of Aziraphale’s days, and ought to have been comforting. It was not.

Aziraphale had seen Hell for the first time. He looked anew at the familiar dusty, dingy walls and piles of clutter in his bookshop, the silent shambling customers, and some part of him shuddered faintly in recognition. For a wild moment, he thought of setting it all on fire again himself, and this time watching it burn. Perhaps it was demonic influence. Perhaps it was something left over from wearing Crowley’s skin. Perhaps he only needed a few days to calm himself, to recover.

That would be it, he told himself. Thanks to Adam, everything was back to normal. And that was all Aziraphale wanted, wasn’t it?

So he got on with it. He tidied books, rearranged shelves and swept floors. He found a nice spot to display the Richmal Cromptons.

And on the seventh day, he shut the shop, locked it, and went to see Crowley.

\--

“Hello? Crowley? It’s me. Helloo?”

The raw concrete corridor to Crowley’s flat was empty, and dark, and Aziraphale pressed the snake-shaped buzzer again. A shadowy figure could just be made out standing beyond the frosted glass door to Crowley's flat. Aziraphale waved at it.

"Aziraphale?” It sounded like Crowley. 

"Yes! I was in the area, I thought I’d drop in. Er."

There was a pause. “Definitely you?”

“Of course it’s me. Why wouldn’t it be me?”

The door opened just a crack, and Aziraphale could hear sniffing. A moment later it swung open, and there stood Crowley, in black shorts and a t-shirt, his hair sleep-rumpled, his sunglasses absent. It was a charming spectacle, in its way, even though he looked far from pleased.

“Oh, you were sleeping!” exclaimed Aziraphale, contrite. 

“Awake now, aren’t I,” scoffed Crowley, and turned on his heel, stalking loose-limbed back into the flat. He left the door open in silent invitation, and Aziraphale followed as the demon disappeared into its mysterious depths. Aziraphale waited awkwardly in the first room, unsure exactly how welcome he was. Through the wide picture window, London glowed in the early morning light.

“Your plants look well,” he called. 

“They’d better,” muttered Crowley, reappearing an instant later, now fully dressed with his sunglasses in place. There was an extremely small cup of coffee in his hand, and a mug of what looked like cocoa which he held out wordlessly. 

Aziraphale took it gratefully. “How kind, thank you.”

The night of the Ineffable Incident, as Aziraphale now referred to it in his mind, he had visited Crowley’s home for the first time. They had sat around the frankly ridiculous marble desk, with Crowley in the gilded chair that looked like a throne, and Aziraphale perched on the smaller one dragged from the side of the room where it now stood against the wall again. This time he dared to sit in the larger chair, in hopes it would be more comfortable. It wasn’t. 

Crowley simply stood, holding his coffee, and regarded him with confusion.

“Seems like just the other day we were here working out how to wear each other’s faces,” said Aziraphale. He sipped his cocoa.

“It was,” said Crowley, impatiently. “Angel, is something wrong? Only you’ve literally never dropped in on me in the entire 6,000 years I’ve known you.”

“That can’t be right,” protested Aziraphale, and thought about it. “Even if it is, there’s nothing wrong. We’re friends, aren’t we? You said we were best friends. And I...”

Crowley peered over the sunglasses at him, his eyebrows a question. 

“I wondered. Since we find ourselves rather at a loose end.” Aziraphale fiddled with his mug, running a fingertip around the rim. It was time to be brave. “I thought you and I deserved a holiday.”

One peculiarity of Crowley’s corporeal body, even in human form, was how rarely he blinked. He did not blink now, and he was very still. “When a man is tired of London,” he drawled, and left the quote hanging.

“He is tired of life, oh yes, Dr. Johnson! Crowley, my dear, I had no idea you were familiar with his work.” 

Crowley shook his head. “Dunno who that is. Saw it on the cover of Time Out last month. Angel, are you serious? A holiday? For… us?”

“Well, why not? It was just a sort of, a sort of whim, I suppose, to go somewhere quieter for a while. A bit of fresh air. Not too far from young Adam, I should like to be able to keep an eye on him. I fancied the South Downs, actually. There must be some village with a decent Bistro or two.” The more he spoke the idea aloud, the better it appealed to him.

Crowley put down his untouched coffee and reached into the back pocket of his trousers, although how it was possible to keep anything in so constrained a space was a mystery to Aziraphale. He took out a slim wireless telephone, nodding vigorously and tapping at it. “Yep, yep, South Downs, don’t see why not. How does one of these grab you?” 

He passed the black slab across and showed Aziraphale how to “scroll”, and before his eyes appeared the details of a half dozen cottages in various quaintly-named villages. 

“Ohh,” said Aziraphale in astonished delight. He stabbed a finger at the picture at the bottom of the screen, a higgledy-piggledy ramshackle brick building that seemed to have been constructed across at least 3 centuries. “How about that one?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I know you can’t get a bloody cottage without bloody bedrooms,” said Crowley, leaning down from the top of the stairs, practically levitating with something that did look increasingly like panic. “What I mean is, this cottage has only one bedroom! And in it, is only one bed!”_

\---

Paradise Cottage was fully booked for the next fourteen months, so Crowley rang them up and it became free the following day. By the next afternoon the two of them were bowling down the A3, all tolls waived, Aziraphale clutching onto the dashboard for dear life as Freddie Mercury assured them both of his desire to “break free”.

If Crowley’s driving was alarming on the streets of London, then down narrow winding country lanes it could only be ten times more so. Aziraphale could not even close his eyes, for fear of visions of young women on bicycles piling up upon the Bentley’s radiator as they charged ever onward. 

“Please, Crowley!” he wailed, as Crowley swung the car violently sideways towards a petrified rabbit. "Do, please, look out! You’ll get us both discorporated, and I don’t even know if we can get new bodies any more!”

“We’ll be fine,” protested Crowley, not slowing down one jot. 

The rabbit, miraculously, escaped damage. 

By the time they reached the village of Milton, Aziraphale was as utterly convinced of the foolishness of the whole idea as he had ever been of anything, and would have given it all up for tuppence. He thought fondly of his abandoned bookshop and swallowed back a wave of nausea. 

A hand landed on his shoulder and patted it gently. “Hey, Angel. We’re here,” said Crowley, leaning in close. “May as well check it out.”

“Oh yes, oh indeed, oh let’s,” said Aziraphale, and hoped he sounded more keen than he felt. 

They had taken a screeching left past the Post Office down a lane lined with ancient trees before turning onto an old stone-paved driveway after another mile or two, although it was hard to tell quite how far at Crowley’s speed. The stones led towards a small wrought-iron gate in a beech hedge, and behind it sat the cottage, warm brick glowing in the late Summer sunshine. It looked even more haphazard than it had in the photographs, its roof a geometrist’s nightmare of intersecting slated planes where it had been added on to through the ages. Behind it hills and valleys rolled outwards and away, down and down towards the ocean, too distant to be seen.

The cottage key was located in the secret hatch of a small ceramic frog beside a pot of pansies on the doorstep. It wore the particularly beleaguered expression common to frogs, but then, mused Aziraphale, wouldn’t anyone who had a key in their stomach? Crowley was first in, bouncing up the stairs with more vigour than his usual louche dawdle, then stopping dead on the landing.

“Angel,” he called out, in a strangled-sounding voice. “Aziraphale.” 

“What is it, Crowley dear?” replied Aziraphale, wrestling his travelling-case from the Bentley’s boot. It was of a considerable size, given his propensity to wear real clothing, and a struggle to manage. He had owned it since the eighteenth century and couldn’t help feeling that travelling storage had been better accounted for in those days.

“There’s only one bedroom,” yelled Crowley, sounding… was it panicked?

With a faint tearing sound, the case broke free of its confines and landed on Aziraphale’s foot. “Drat,” he said, and then remembered that Heaven was almost certainly not watching. He cast his eyes briefly upwards, then back to the case, noticing the long rip in its tartan cloth side. “Fuck,” he muttered, with considerably more feeling, and dragged the thing indoors. 

“Of course there’s a bedroom,” he called back. “You can’t get a cottage without any bedrooms. I thought you’d like it.”

“I know you can’t get a bloody cottage without bloody bedrooms,” said Crowley, leaning down from the top of the stairs, practically levitating with something that did look increasingly like panic. “What I mean is, this cottage has only one bedroom! And in it, is only one bed!”

“What on earth is the matter with you?” huffed Aziraphale, running a hand over the torn cloth of his case and mending it regretfully. It was simply too bad, he’d always know the damage was there now. “It’s all yours, you know I don’t really do sleeping.”

Crowley froze on the spot, very much as if he had indeed forgotten that fact. “Right,” he said slowly. “That’s right. Yup. Sloth being a sin, of course. I’ll, er. I’ll just..?”

“You don’t mind if I use the wardrobes, do you?” asked Aziraphale. He regarded the narrow staircase, and then his overstuffed luggage, with a sinking heart. He would have to unpack in the sitting room and carry his things up in stages, it seemed.

Crowley clicked his fingers and the case vanished. “No problem,” he said. “I’ll go and… I’ll… yeah, something.” He stalked down past Aziraphale and out of the door towards the Bentley, unfathomably disgruntled.

Six thousand years, and yet still Aziraphale found Crowley as impossible to understand as he ever had. Fascinating, wonderful, and always somewhat unexpectedly kind, all of those things, he thought as he gratefully unfolded his clothes from the travelling-case where it had been miraculously transported to the bed, and hung them up in the wardrobe. But unfathomable, just the same. If he was honest with himself, Aziraphale was hoping this holiday might also resolve a few of those ancient mysteries. To what end, he was not yet wholly ready to admit.

His personal articles stowed, Aziraphale closed the doors and was confronted with himself, reflected in the large oval mirror set into the wardrobe’s front. Behind him stood the bed, a mighty creation of dark oak, with crisp white linens and a pink chintz counterpane, resolving itself even as he watched into a much more appealing tartan. The colours came out differently than he had expected; scarlet and a dark, sophisticated charcoal, with highlights of white and gold, but the effect was pleasingly cosy so he let it be. A bunch of dusty polyester roses stood in a jug on the windowsill, and as a final touch Aziraphale made them real. They smelled wonderful and were exactly the same shade as the red in the counterpane. He couldn’t help feeling they set the whole room off beautifully.

Satisfied, Aziraphale wandered happily about the cottage’s remaining rooms, altering very little, really - just a touch more space for bookshelves in the large cupboard that had been optimistically advertised as a “snug”, drying out the damp in the North-facing walls, and ensuring the charming casement windows were also perfectly weatherproof. The place seemed suffused with a calm simplicity, the rooms spacious and airy despite their low beamed ceilings, and largely devoid of artworks or ornaments. Upstairs was no more than the bedroom and a bathroom, in which an extravagant claw-footed bath sat beneath a window half obscured by ivy.

Downstairs lay a sitting room dominated by a fireplace of the sort Aziraphale could remember being used to roast entire pigs, though now a black iron stove sat within it, and wicker baskets of logs took up most of the space to the sides. A single venerable squashy sofa and a tall rocking chair faced one another across the room, with a coffee table between them. 

One could reach the aforementioned snug through a very old low door beneath the stairs, and through another door, a kitchen with scrubbed wooden cabinets and white marble worktops. It was large enough to comfortably fit a small dining table, and an extension housed the laundry machinery, not that they were likely to need it. The windows at the rear of the house faced the sun and the whole place seemed flooded with light. Outside an unkempt lawn full of daisies and buttercups stretched out under a small gnarled tree. It was all rather lovely.

He had just put the milk pan on the range for a cup of cocoa and was wondering where Crowley had got to, when Crowley himself returned. 

“Dear fellow! Where have you been? Would you like cocoa?”

Crowley was frowning at him, looming in the doorway like an elongated bat, one hand clutching a brown paper bag of what appeared to be liquor. He gestured with it towards the general space about them. “S’this your idea of a joke?” he asked.

“A joke?” repeated Aziraphale weakly, wondering what was the matter this time.

“The tree out there.”

Azriaphale turned to peer out of the window. It was a very nice tree, so far as he could tell, although he’d never really known much about horticulture. Then a very horrible thought struck him.

“Oh no,” he breathed. “It isn’t?”

“Oh yes,” said Crowley. “It very much is.” He took a step forward, setting the bag on the table where it landed with the distinctive ‘clonk’ of glass that confirmed Aziraphale’s suspicions. Arms folded, he regarded the quivering Angel. “You really didn’t do it on purpose? The apple tree in the garden, Paradise Cottage, Milton Village?”

Aziraphale dropped his wooden spoon with a clatter and collapsed into the nearest chair, horrified. “Crowley, you must believe me! I hadn’t the slightest idea!”

Crowley grimaced, rolling his eyes so hard Aziraphale could tell he was doing it even behind his glasses. “The worst bit is I do, I completely believe you. This better not be some new Plan of Hers.” He reached for the bottle once more, unwrapping it with a suspicious frown. “Found the off-licence, at least. Wine selection was atrocious, I warn you, so I asked what sort of thing they could recommend that was local, and got this. Any glasses in this hovel, Angel?”

Tutting, Aziraphale fumbled for a pair of tumblers from the cupboards, and set them down. The bottle was heavy brown glass with a cheaply-printed label reading “Scumble”, and the bottling date had been written by hand in biro. The liquid it produced was an unappetising cloudy yellow and smelled very strongly of apples. Both Aziraphale and Crowley regarded it with trepidation before lifting their glasses. 

"To the world?" asked Aziraphale.

"Nah, done that. To new beginnings," said Crowley. 

Their gazes met for a long moment.

“Bottoms up, then?” said Aziraphale at last, and Crowley groaned and threw back the entire glassful. Hastily Aziraphale followed suit and both immediately grimaced.

“What on earth is in this stuff?” choked Aziraphale, as Crowley ripped off his sunglasses and glared afresh at the label.

“Apples, it says,” he croaked. “Well, mostly apples. Fucking Heaven, this might be the worst thing I’ve ever tasted.”

The colour inside the bottle darkened slightly, and Crowley refilled both glasses without listening to Aziraphale’s protests. As the afternoon slid into evening the level of the bottle dropped, and far more pleasantly now it had been transformed into a 10 year old Talisker single malt. 

It was so nice to truly relax, certain no-one was watching, for the very first time. Without even the waitstaff of the Ritz in earshot, Aziraphale was able to get the full story of Crowley’s trip to Heaven, and if there was some disgruntlement at the discovery that most of Hell had now seen Crowley’s earthly vessel in nothing but his underwear, Aziraphale did explain that he had simply been concerned for Crowley’s lovely suit.

“The socks,” Crowley had wailed. “Why keep the bloody socks on, then? They all think I’m weird, now!”

They moved through to the sitting room, where Crowley lit the stove with a careless click of his fingers, fire being more his department. Aziraphale ventured to loosen his tie and even undid the first button of his waistcoat, rocking back to prop his feet on the coffee table as Crowley claimed the sofa for his own without dispute. 

Eventually Crowley started on about whales again, and for once Aziraphale couldn’t help countering. “But what about octopuses, because, you know, actually, if you look into it, octopuses are also jolly clever. Jolly clever, and their brains work completely differently, because they don’t have brains in their skulls… not skulls… their head-bits.”

“Head bits,” repeated Crowley, sniggering into his glass.

“Whatever, I shall call them head-bits if I want to, don’t interrupt you foul fiend, they have brains is what I’m saying, brains! Yes! All over! Completely made of brains, Crowley, no I’m not making it up. Brains and tentacles! Think of that. So really, fuck whales, I’m sorry, but fuck them.”

“Say that again,” said Crowley, leaning forward. He was swaying slightly, though his voice was oddly sober.

“Octopsh,” said Aziraphale, and tried again. “Hocdopushes,” he said, and shook his head. “Brains, Crowley. Full of ‘em! That, that is what I’m saying.”

“And what about whales?”

It took no little effort to focus on Crowley’s face, but it was worth any effort, because Crowley was so terribly, terribly beautiful. Especially now, when he was looking at Aziraphale with such glorious, burning intensity. Such pretty eyes. Very carefully, Aziraphale rehearsed the phrase in his head, so that he could enunciate it clearly. 

“Fuck them,” he said.

Crowley stood up so suddenly he banged his head on a ceiling beam. “Ow,” he snarled. “I’m going to bed, see you in the morning, don’t forget to sober up, goodnight.”

Aziraphale watched him go, and felt his stomach drop at the loss. Ridiculush, he told himself. Ridiculous. The bottle was almost empty, so he tidied up the last of it, and went back to the kitchen to make the cocoa he had abandoned that afternoon.

He sat in the kitchen to drink it, looking out at the garden, sobering up as the sky outside grew darker and darker and then slowly light again. He watched as a fox slunk through the undergrowth outside, pausing, one forepaw lifted, to sniff the air, and then a few hours later an owl swept silently through the trees on pale outstretched wings. It was a long time since he’d seen owls, he thought. You used to get a lot more of them, once upon a time. 

He hoped Crowley was sleeping well.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Aziraphale looked down at his plate, and the half-eaten Battenberg. It was very good indeed, too good to share really, but there would be other slices. He could go and get more at any time. Carefully, he lifted the next mouthful onto his fork and held it out towards Crowley, his other hand cupped beneath in case it fell. “Have some cake,” he said._
> 
> _“No,” said Crowley, without moving._

\---

The following morning dawned bright and clear, as perfect a late summer’s day as could be imagined. Aziraphale explored the garden, which was rather larger than it had appeared initially, and discovered a narrow, gated lane towards the back. With only a few small nudges it led almost directly to the centre of the village, and the point where it emerged over a narrow stone stile was so tucked away that anyone would struggle to notice it without having found it already, particularly after Aziraphale inched a yew tree just a little to the right to conceal it further. One couldn’t expect to find everything simply on the doorstep, as it was in London, but the walk there and back took barely half an hour; exactly the sort of stroll to give a body the appetite for breakfast afterwards. 

He found a Post Office and picked up a copy of the Times, and then after a brief hesitation, another of the Independent. It was sad, but one could never really trust a Murdoch paper, however respectable its original provenance. He ambled back to the cottage and settled himself back down at the kitchen table, dutifully reading every page even if he didn’t take much of it in. There was very little mention of the events that had almost ended the world, and from what he could tell, people seemed unwilling to consider it much more than an inexplicable mass delusion, and the prevailing opinion was that anyone still discussing it must be a mere crackpot.

The stairs creaked with the sound of footsteps, and despite himself, Aziraphale jumped at it. The thought occurred to him: he lived with someone now, officially, even if it mightn’t be for long. He lived with Crowley. 

"Our side," mouthed Aziraphale to himself, and felt the words warm him, even if he didn’t quite understand what they meant, yet. 

Crowley appeared in the doorway. “There are roses in my bedroom.” 

Aziraphale beamed at him over the top of his newspaper. “Oh, yes!” he said, setting it down on the kitchen table and reaching for the stovetop espresso maker, which miraculously boiled at that precise moment. “Do you like them?”

Crowley watched him pour the coffee and push it across the table towards him. He sat down with a sigh. 

“Yes,” he said, and drank it. His hair was rumpled again, and it made Aziraphale want to reach out and smooth it down. That would of course have been inappropriate, so he didn’t.

“Did you… sleep well?” asked Aziraphale. It was the sort of question one read about in books, but it still seemed an odd thing to ask.

“Fine, yeah. Good sleep. You should try it.”

“I’m sure I shall at some point,” replied Aziraphale, folding his newspaper neatly, pleased that all seemed to be well. “I was thinking I might have a look around the village, perhaps find somewhere nice for dinner tonight, if you’re amenable?”

Crowley was indeed amenable, or as near as he got to such, so in short order they found themselves wandering down the back lane into Milton. The air held a faint scent of dust and honeysuckle, and the hanging baskets framing almost every door buzzed with fat bees. Postcard-perfect houses of brick and whitewash peeped over ancient hedgerows, and further towards the main street the roads broadened and buildings changed to old grey stone, their windows widening into such a proliferation of local Artists Galleries and Teashops one might have thought them an infestation, reproducing by spores.

It had been almost a week since Aziraphale ate food, and teashops meant cake. Indeed, the first one they entered served over two dozen different sorts of cake, all homemade, and the cheerful lady behind the counter was delighted to enumerate the qualities of every single one.

It also had a back garden, with a handful of outside tables under striped umbrellas, and a pond with some ducks. Nearby to it a group of young mothers sat out for a coffee with their infant children, babies too young to walk and a toddler throwing ricecakes at the ducks with rather more force than aim. Several of the ducks had wisely elected to leave the boy’s immediate vicinity and wander amongst the tables instead, pecking up beetles and crumbs.

Aziraphale gently shooed one away from a wicker chair so he could sit down opposite Crowley, who had taken his coffee and wandered outside somewhere around about the carrot cake. It quacked at him indignantly.

“Battenberg,” announced Aziraphale excitedly, setting down the little plate and taking up a forkful. “Not an easy decision, I can tell you. Still, it’s so rare to find a good one, and I’ve always been a devil for Battenberg. Ah. Er. Well, a something, anyway.”

Crowley was leaning back in his chair, giving him the flat not-quite-smile that meant he was trying to hide his amusement, or at least trying to give the impression that he was. “Is it?” he asked. “Good, I mean.”

Aziraphale chewed thoughtfully, and swallowed, closing his eyes in bliss. The cake was buttery, almondy, moist, but not remotely heavy. A soft moan of pleasure escaped him. “It’s very good,” he said, diving in for another bite. “Oh, my goodness.”

Crowley cleared his throat. “We’ll be coming back here then,” he said, half to himself, and busied himself with his coffee.

“I had a thought,” said Aziraphale, tapping the sides of his mouth delicately with a napkin. “We could go to the seaside. It isn’t far.”

“What for? We just got here.”

Aziraphale paused, fork held in midair. “Well, what do you mean what for? To look at the sea. Eat icecreams. Maybe oysters. Holiday things.”

“Not a fan of oysters,” sniffed Crowley. “Or the sea. Too much water, makes me nervous.” 

Aziraphale frowned. “You don’t like oysters?”

“Nope,” said Crowley, popping the final consonant. “Do you remember Petronius?”

“Petronius? Oh, yes, from Rome! Goodness, that’s going back a while.”

“You kept banging on about his oysters, so I went and tried them out.” Crowley grimaced, sticking his tongue out at the memory. “Disgusting. Like salty, chewy mucus. And I swear they were wriggling, do you know they’re still alive when you eat them? Never again. Put me off food entirely.” 

“Hmm,” said Aziraphale. “I suppose they are an acquired taste. But what do you mean, entirely? Do you mean to tell me you haven’t eaten food since Rome? That’s absurd!”

“I still drink things,” shrugged Crowley. “Lots of things, actually. Alcohol. Coffee. Well, pretty much just alcohol and coffee now I come to think of it.”

“Oh, and I’m the one who put you off! This is dreadful, Crowley, I feel responsible.”

“Well, to be frank, Angel, I can’t say I fancy the aftermath either. You know. Digestion.” He pulled a face again.

“I never bother with that part. Miracle it all away before anything of that sort can take place,” said Aziraphale airily, waving his fork in the air.

Crowley raised his eyebrows, and turned back to watching the ducks. “No wonder they had a go at you for frivolous miracles.”

Aziraphale looked down at his plate, and the half-eaten Battenberg. It was very good indeed, too good to share really, but there would be other slices. He could go and get more at any time. Carefully, he lifted the next mouthful onto his fork and held it out towards Crowley, his other hand cupped beneath in case it fell. “Have some cake,” he said.

“No,” said Crowley, without moving.

“Go on. I insist.” Aziraphale waggled the fork slightly.

“I’m not eating cake.”

“It’s nice. You ought to try it.” A few feet away the group of mothers had noticed and were beginning to giggle. One of them was attempting a very similar maneuver with a jar of baby food and her child. She winked conspiratorially at Aziraphale.

“I don’t want to try it,” growled Crowley.

“It’s only a tiny bit.”

The conversation continued in like manner for a good few minutes until with a snarl, Crowley lunged forward and ate the cake in an unmistakably snakelike fashion. Aziraphale was slightly relieved to see the fork still intact.

“There, you see!” he said, quietly spearing his own next mouthful. “Wasn’t so hard.” 

Crowley chewed like a dog with a toffee, looking bewildered more than anything, and swallowed as if he’d had a golf ball stuffed down his throat. He stood up. “I’ll meet you back at the cottage,” he said, and left, stalking away while Aziraphale’s mouth was too full to object.

Aziraphale finished his cake and purchased some more to take home. He bid a friendly farewell to the group of mothers, unobtrusively blessed their babies and wandered back home in his own time. 

On the way he stumbled across a restaurant with a dubious-looking menu and on balance elected to leave booking a table for another day. He also discovered the Tourist Information Office housed a very small branch of the local library, complete with a regularly-meeting poetry group, and even better, that the Post Office sold dog biscuits. He ambled home rather pleased with himself.

\--

When he lifted the latch to the cottage gate, Crowley was standing in the garden, talking to the apple tree. It seemed a rather stern conversation, for some reason. 

“Hello!” he called, waving, and wandered into the kitchen to find a cake tin. Crowley followed him in, peering over his shoulder as Aziraphale unloaded his shopping. 

“What’ve you got?”

“I brought back some more Battenberg,” said Aziraphale, cutting a slice for himself. It was rather a large slice, he realised belatedly, as he put the meagre remainder into a large blue tin, where it looked decidedly small and lonely.

Crowley crossed to the cupboard where glasses were kept, and took down two. From the refrigerator was produced a bottle of sparkling white wine, which he uncorked, pouring both glasses with practiced grace. 

“It’s a nice day again, I thought we could drink this in the garden. Saving that bit?” he asked, nodding at the tin.

Aziraphale shook his head. Crowley tucked the bottle under one arm and passed him a drink, carrying his own past the back of Aziraphale’s chair. His long hand reached around to take the last piece of cake.

“Finish it off, then,” he said casually, and wandered back whence he’d come. 

Aziraphale blinked for a moment in shock, then scrambled to his feet. “You don’t have a plate!”

“It’s a garden, Angel,” yelled Crowley.

\--

There was a small bench at the back of Paradise Cottage that sat dab in the centre of a sunbeam, with blossoming bushes to either side, and a view over largely empty fields and orchards. Crowley was sitting down upon it already, or rather had thrown his limbs against it and resolved them into a position that reasonably approximated sitting. 

Aziraphale joined him. He ate neatly and quickly, trying not to stare too much at Crowley beside him, taking tentative bites and chewing with slow thoughtfulness. He wasn’t drinking the champagne, Aziraphale noticed. He had a suspicion Crowley didn’t quite know how to start an ordinary conversation without a bottle of alcohol nearby, which was a very endearing thought.

“You keep plants,” said Aziraphale, tucking his empty plate away under the bench. He sniffed at the one beside him. “Why does this one smell of roses, do you know?”

Crowley snorted derisively. “Because it’s a rose. A briar rose, actually, the wild sort.” 

“Oh, I see. It’s very nice. Do you know what the rest of them are?”

With a put-upon sigh, Crowley began to point out the rest of the plants in the garden. The one to the other side of the bench was a hydrangea, and the long purplish one by the hedge was a buddleia, alive with hungry butterflies.

It was very pleasant to listen to him talk, the drawl of his voice unhurried and soothing. He seemed very knowledgeable, but then Crowley often was. His plants back in London were always wonderfully verdant. Astronomy, too, had always been one of his pet subjects, and Technology. None of it stuff that Aziraphale knew one jot about, which made it even more fascinating to listen to. It was hardly surprising when the stars began to appear above them, and Crowley was still talking.

He looked up, and fell silent. The birds had gone to sleep by this hour, and nothing stirred but the gentle susurration of leaves.

“You don’t really see them properly, in London,” said Aziraphale at length. 

Crowley hummed. 

“Which one is Alpha Centauri?”

“Can’t see it from this hemisphere. Nearest thing would be that one, down there, Albireo, at the head of Cygnus. Not quite the same, still a double star, but I mucked up the gravitational pull so they’re drifting apart. Very slowly, but, well. Not ideal.”

Straining his eyes considerably further than human sight could usually manage, Aziraphale suppressed a brief flicker of anxiety that someone, Upstairs or Down, would notice what he was doing. It was a difficult habit to break, and this was a rather larger use of his abilities than simply rearranging walls or changing the colour of a coverlet, but really, he thought, what was the point of having miraculous powers and not using them? He concentrated, and managed to focus on a pair of stars, impossibly distant in the lightless empty vacuum of space. One was large and golden, the other small and sapphire blue. 

The effort involved meant it took him a moment fully process what Crowley had told him.

“I’m sorry, did you say you mucked up? Does that mean you helped Her to make the stars? Is that how you know Alpha Centauri?” he asked, turning suddenly to his companion, still staring up at the sky.

Crowley sipped at his flat champagne, the glass still almost full, and grimaced. Fresh bubbles fizzed miraculously up inside the liquid. “Some of them.” 

“You must have been fairly big, then. Someone important.” Aziraphale was doing his best to tread carefully, but he’d been curious about this for a while. He’d seen Crowley stop time, and conjure alternate dimensions. Aziraphale was fairly certain he couldn’t do that sort of thing himself without considerable strain.

“Long time ago.” A sadness washed over Crowley’s expression, his ever-maintained veneer of cool briefly swept away. It squeezed at Aziraphale’s heart, and he suddenly felt terribly guilty for even thinking of asking.

“I mostly did administrative work, before,” he said, conversationally. “Filing names for cattle and creeping things and wild animals of the earth of every kind, you know the sort of thing, terribly dull. Then one day Michael came around asking for volunteers to go downstairs, and I said, ooh, yes please. Raring to go, as they say these days.”

Crowley leaned his head back. “I don’t think they say that these days.”

“Oh. Well, they used to.”

The faintest rustle came from in the undergrowth and the fox’s muzzle peered out from under the buddleia, eyeing them suspiciously. 

“Anthony, there you are,” said Aziraphale, and reached into his pocket for the dog biscuits purchased earlier, tossing a few gently out onto the moonlit grass within the animal’s reach. 

Crowley frowned. “Anthony?”

Aziraphale smiled as he tucks the biscuits away. “I’m fond of the name.”

“It’s my name.”

“I suppose he reminded me of you,” said Aziraphale, as the golden-eyed, tawny beast slunk cautiously forwards the food, watching them all the while. “In some ways. Besides Anthony isn’t really your name, is it? You’re Crowley.”

Crowley looked back up at the stars. “Wasn’t always.” 

The conversation had managed to get away from Aziraphale again. “It’s a good name. And you chose it, as I recall. I like it very much.”

“I did choose it,” conceded Crowley. “Mind you I chose Anthony, too.”

“And J,” added Aziraphale, smiling. “All excellent names.”

“Why thank you, Mr Fell,” said Crowley. “I never asked, what do the A and Z stand for?”

“I don’t know,” admitted Aziraphale. “It never came up. Anthony Z, I suppose?”

“Oh, you don’t want Anthony. Too common these days. Every Tom, Dick, and Anthony’s called… no, wait, that doesn’t work,” said Crowley. He regarded the fox, now crunching greedily through its dinner as if it hadn’t eaten in days. “Not the table manners that reminded you of me.”

Aziraphale laughed aloud at that, and at the memory of Crowley in the teashop gardens. "Did you like the cake? I'm sorry if I forced it on you, my dear."

Crowley pondered. "It was all right. Got a texture, hasn’t it? Not slimy. Not sure it's my scene, really. But, you know. New beginnings."

His shoulders had relaxed, at last, and he leant against the bench almost exactly as if they were back in St James’ Park, except now they had it all to themselves. Just them, and the moon, and the stars, and the soft sound of Anthony the fox still eating dog biscuits. The bench at Paradise Cottage was a touch smaller, too, so that Crowley’s outstretched arm lay almost touching the back of Aziraphale’s neck. Aziraphale shivered, not only from the night’s chill.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Listen,” said Anathema urgently, once she and Aziraphale were seated. “I can’t help you. I’ve got no predictions left. Whatever it is that’s gone wrong now, I don’t know anything about it.”_
> 
> _“Nothing’s gone wrong, who said anything had gone wrong?” said Aziraphale, still smiling, although it was becoming slightly strained._
> 
> _“Oh please, an angel and a demon show up at my house, within a month of what I’m pretty sure was supposed to be the Apocalypse? Sure, why would I think anything was wrong?” _

\---

If Aziraphale had entertained any concerns about living in one another’s pockets, they proved unfounded. Within the week, their days had found a companionable pattern, with Aziraphale claiming the snug as his own, and Crowley often to be found in the garden outside. 

No longer under Heaven’s command, Aziraphale turned to reading once more. He befriended the village’s Librarian, a charming young person with pink hair and a large quantity of tattoos, and ordered in books of Philosophy and Theology that had always intrigued him, but which he had never dared to seek out before. A. J. Ayer gave him a headache almost instantly, while Nietzche seemed impenetrably obtuse, and Jaques Derrida was worst of all. Boethius at least made sense, but most rewarding was G. K. Chesterton, Aziraphale having already guiltily enjoyed most of his crime novels. However, there were a good deal of questions being asked within the covers of any of them, and when his brain began to buzz with confusion, he would take walks about Milton, absently performing a few small miracles as he went. 

One morning he returned to find Paradise Cottage had acquired a garage that looked to be quite as old as the house itself, with the Bentley ensconced within, and a large Edwardian-styled greenhouse in the garden. A few days later, the snug became mysteriously as large as the kitchen, and the cottage’s internet listing started to return an error message. He could find no indication that either Upstairs or Downstairs even noticed. There were no more memos to Head Office, no more unexpected visits from Gabriel and Sandalphon. The Summer drifted slowly into Autumn; as he walked, Aziraphale found himself crunching acorns and sycamore keys underfoot, and in the hedgerows blackberries grew fat and delicious. For the most part, it was blissful.

Yet the best of all was the knowledge that Crowley was always nearby. Not so long ago, they could easily have gone several decades between seeing one another, a thought that already seemed too strange to be believed.

The hollow at the centre of Aziraphale’s being that once held his allegiance to Heaven was not so frightening with Crowley there. If anyone understood what it was to be an outcast, it was Crowley, and if he could manage, Aziraphale would find the strength to do the same. Every few hours, when empty loneliness clutched at his soul, he would pause, listening, and somewhere would be the sound of Crowley mumbling to a plant, or whistling Queen songs, or snarling at daytime television. He wasn’t sure quite why Crowley watched it, and Crowley had explained that he used to just keep track of Piers Morgan and report whatever he was doing back to Hell as Crowley’s influence, until eventually watching had become a habit.

There was now a mirrored flatscreen television in the sitting room, and Crowley showed Aziraphale another wireless service that enabled one to watch a huge number of filmed theatrical and operatic performances. In the evenings they would sometimes share the sagging, overstuffed sofa to watch them, even if Crowley did tend to fall asleep without sufficient explosions to hold his attention. He woke up once to find Aziraphale sobbing over the ending of La Traviata, and responded by threatening to put on The Sound of Music next time. 

But sometimes, when Crowley dozed, Aziraphale would quietly turn the television off, instead, and simply regard his friend. His only friend by every reasonable assessment, but his best friend nonetheless. 

Angels can sense love. He had known Crowley loved him for a long time, and though it had taken many years to realise it, he knew he loved Crowley, too.

He just wasn’t quite sure what to do about it. He wasn’t quite sure what to do about anything, any more. 

\--

It was a fine sunny Saturday at the beginning of September, the air crisp and fresh, when it occurred to Aziraphale that they had not yet ventured to Tadfield as intended. He wandered out to find Crowley in the warmth of the greenhouse, delicately pressing seeds into a tray of tiny pots of soil that looked as if they would be far too small for fully grown plants. He could only presume the demon knew what he was doing.

“Wondered when you were going to remember that,” said Crowley, wiping slightly muddy hands on his trousers. He had foregone the usual jacket, tie and waistcoat he always wore in London, and was simply dressed in a t-shirt, the deep V of the neckline exposing several inches of narrow chest, with his sunglasses perched atop his head. “Let’s go, then.”

“Yes,” said Aziraphale, distractedly. For a brief moment he had been reminded of wearing Crowley’s shape, and how tempting had been the urge to strip off all the layers of black, if only for a look. “Quite so.”

On a map, Tadfield appeared to be just over an hour from Milton. In the Bentley, it was barely forty minutes, although if Aziraphale had been able to age, he would have passed at least ten years in that time. Even now, Aziraphale could feel the waves of love emanating from the little village. It wasn’t as strong as it had been when they first visited, but it was undoubtedly still there.

Jasmine Cottage was not hard to find, framed now by trees beginning to turn bronze, and Aziraphale unhitched the gate, clutching a tin of fancy biscuits procured as a gift in his free hand. Crowley had suggested wine. Aziraphale was beginning to wonder if that hadn’t been a better idea, but it was too late now. He knocked on the door and waited.

A tall young man in a floral dressing-gown opened it and peered at them myopically.

“Hello. Is Miss Device home?” asked Aziraphale.

“Well. Funnily enough. There is no Miss Device,” began the young man, with a sheepishly smug smile, then suddenly gaped at Aziraphale in horror. “Oh God, it’s you. Ana, it’s them!”

From behind the man, whose name Aziraphale dimly remembered was Newton, peeped Anathema herself. She was clutching a mug of tea in her left hand, on the third finger of which Aziraphale noticed a ring she had not worn on their previous meetings. 

“Hello,” said Aziraphale again, smiling. He couldn’t be quite sure how well this was going.

Anathema shook her head incredulously, reached out, and dragged him forwards. “Oh my God. Get in here before someone sees you.”

The interior of Jasmine Cottage was exactly as cramped as Paradise Cottage was not, and getting themselves inside and seated around the kitchen table required some significant manoeuvring and squeezing before anything like comfort could be achieved. The restricted space was not helped by the fact that every wall was hung with a remarkable amount of ornamentation. Anathema’s tastes, much like any witch Aziraphale had ever met, were both eclectic and extremely thorough. Sacred Hearts jostled with Pentagrams, elephant’s heads were quite as common as human or goat ones, and there was a general theme of astral bodies and heavy-handed symbolism. 

“Listen,” said Anathema urgently, once she and Aziraphale were seated. “I can’t help you. I’ve got no predictions left. Whatever it is that’s gone wrong now, I don’t know anything about it.”

“Nothing’s gone wrong, who said anything had gone wrong?” said Aziraphale, still smiling, although it was becoming slightly strained.

“Oh please, an angel and a demon show up at my house, within a month of what I’m pretty sure was supposed to be the Apocalypse? Sure, why would I think anything was wrong?” 

Crowley had remained just outside the room, leaning on the doorframe, slightly stooped in a way that was clearly meant to look cool and relaxed, but was not wholly successful. He made a faint sound of wordless alarm.

Aziraphale gaped. “A what? How… why would you think… um.”

Anathema flapped a hand dismissively. “It’s fine, I haven’t told anyone. You are, though, don’t bother denying it. Why are you here?”

Aziraphale held out the tin of biscuits with a hand that shook slightly. “Oh, well. Just wanted to see how you all were, and that sort of thing, if we aren’t interrupting. That’s all.” 

Anathema took the tin distractedly, setting it to one side with no sign of opening them, which was disappointing. They were a rather nice shortbread, of a sort that went particularly well with tea. Newton, who had disappeared upstairs as they entered, reappeared, his glasses and normal attire restored, and silently began to fill the kettle and fetch mugs from a cupboard. Aziraphale decided he liked the lad.

“Congratulations, by the way,” said Crowley, addressing Newton. 

Newton flinched, and stared at him exactly like a rabbit transfixed by a snake.

“You got married,” said Crowley, speaking slowly and clearly.

“Yes!” said Newton. He relaxed by a fraction. “Yes, we did. Thank you. It was a bit spur-of-the-moment, just a registry office thing. We’re going to have another one so my mum can be there. She was a bit upset we did it without her. And Ana’s mum, too. Her ‘mom’.”

“How wonderful, that sounds lovely. I could do you a blessing, if you like,” said Aziraphale. It would probably still count, he thought, thanking Newton as he took his mug of tea.

“Oh, well. That’s a very kind offer,” said Newton, though he looked confused. He set down a small plate of biscuits, not the ones they had brought, but the irregular, small-batch sort. He didn’t sit down, instead installing himself behind Anathema’s chair, cradling his cup of tea and looking nervously over at Crowley.

“Any reason you wanted it to be quick?” asked Crowley. 

“Just, sometimes you just have to live in the moment. Take risks,” said Anathema. “Who knows what’s going to happen next, right?”

“That’s true,” said Crowley. “No book now, is there.”

“It’s great,” said Anathema firmly. “I get to choose whatever I want to do. Anything at all. Whatever I like!”

“Yes,” said Aziraphale, with feeling. He took a biscuit. They were golden and crumbly-looking, and smelled faintly spiced. “Making our own destinies, and so on.”

“Whatever that means,” muttered Crowley.

Anathema frowned at him. She appeared to be staring rather hard, which was unnerving. 

“And how is young Adam?” asked Aziraphale, stirring another sugar into his mug. “Back to normal, I hope?”

“He’s fine. He usually comes over on Thursdays after school, actually, you could come by and ask him yourself. What’s the deal with your auras?”

“I didn’t know we had any,” said Aziraphale, perfectly honestly. He took a bite of his biscuit. It was very good.

“They were really faint, and now they’re much brighter. Sort of rainbow. Like Adam’s.”

“I say, these are delicious,” said Aziraphale. “Do they have cinnamon in?”

Anathema continued to stare for a moment, then shook her head, and pushed her glasses back up her nose, seemingly done with her interrogation of their auras. “Yeah, and cardamom. It’s an old family recipe,” she said. “I’ll make you a copy.”

Aziraphale considered this. He knew, abstractly, that food was made, in much the same way as clothing was sewn. It had never before occurred to him, however, to make food himself. It might be rather fun, he thought. “That would be lovely, thank you.”

They talked for a while, the conversation slowly becoming more comfortable, or at least less painfully awkward. Aziraphale took another biscuit, and eventually the discussion arrived at the Ineffable Incident.

“It’s like it never happened, except it did,” said Anathema. “Everyone’s just ignoring it. Even you find it really hard to remember, don’t you, Newt?”

The young man shrugged. “It’s just sort of hazy. I’m sure you’re right, though, dear.” 

“Adam remembers,” she said. “That’s why he comes over, I think I’d go insane if I couldn’t talk to him at least. That, and I’m teaching him witchcraft, obviously.”

“Obviously,” agreed Aziraphale, with some trepidation. “I should like to see him, I think. Would he mind if we came back on Thursday?”

Behind him, Crowley groaned theatrically, and was ignored.

“That sounds great,” said Anathema. “And… just to check. You’re sure there’s nothing the matter. Nothing at all. No disasters on the horizon. You’re sure.”

“My dear lady, I can assure you, I have no idea,” said Aziraphale again, then leaned forward, curious. “Unless there’s something you can tell me?”

“No!” Anathema all but yelped. “No. I don’t see anything, I don’t know what’s coming, it’s a little weird, but whatever. Forget I asked.”

“Of course,” said Aziraphale, taking another biscuit doubtfully. They really were very good. “We’re all as much in the dark as one another, now.” 

“Would you even tell me if you did know?” asked Anathama, twisting the ring on her finger fretfully. “What if you’re hiding it?”

“Okay, right, sorry, I can’t stand this much longer,” announced Crowley. “No-one’s hiding anything, everything’s fine, Angel, can we go home now?”

“Like we’d believe you? You’re a demon!” snapped Anathema, an edge of hysteria entering her tone once more.

“What?” said Newton.

“Oh,” said Anathema.

“Figure of speech,” said Crowley.

“Is it?” asked Newton. 

“Totally,” said Anathema.

“You called him Angel,” said Newton, looking at Crowley with dawning horror.

“Just a nickname,” said Aziraphale brightly. “Do you know, I think it’s time we were off, actually.”

He pushed back his chair with a terrible screeching sound over the stone-flagged floor and shuffled his way out into the hall as quickly as space would allow. Anathema followed them to the door, leaving a bewildered Newt in the kitchen. 

“I’m so sorry!” she whispered.

“Could make him forget he heard it,” muttered Crowley, his expression dark. 

“We can’t. That would be bad,” said Aziraphale, and looked at Anathema hopefully. She shook her head.

“No,” she said. “I’ll talk to him. It’ll be fine.”

“Of course. I have absolute faith in you,” said Aziraphale. He was getting quite good at lying these days.

\--

Aziraphale was still fretting when they arrived back at the cottage. Crowley switched off the ignition, sighed, and turned to his passenger.

“It’ll be fine,” he said, and Aziraphale glanced at him anxiously. With the sunglasses, it was sometimes frustratingly hard to tell what Crowley really meant, and this was one of those occasions.

“Will it? 

“Just, stop fretting,” said Crowley. “Go and, I don’t know, have a nap or something.”

“Do you think a nap would help?” asked Aziraphale. He hadn’t done that in a long time, but perhaps Crowley had a point. It was a terrible thing, to be discovered after six thousand years under the radar, and his thoughts were wheeling about like autumn starlings. Maybe a sleep would help. He nodded.

“Thank Hell,” muttered Crowley, and shooed him out of the car.

Aziraphale entered their home and climbed their stairs still in something of a daze. He stood and looked at the bed. 

It had been many years since Aziraphale had worn a nightshirt, although there was probably one upstairs at the bookshop somewhere. He supposed he could miracle one up, although he never liked to do so. He carefully removed and folded his bow-tie, waistcoat, braces, boots, trousers, socks, sock garters, shirt, undershirt, and vest, and decided that to simply retain his drawers would probably do.

It certainly looked inviting, he thought, climbing under the covers and lying down experimentally. The mattress was soft, and the sheets were pleasantly cool. Outside the window he could hear birds chirping. Aziraphale closed his eyes and took a deep breath. 

“Oh,” he said aloud. The bed smelled of Crowley. It was a warm smell, earthy and smokey, and not necessarily one particularly conducive to sleep. For a panicked moment, Aziraphale wondered about getting up immediately and taking a bubble bath instead. That was usually his preferred way to relax, on the rare occasions he wasn’t in the mood to read.

But then he might have to explain why he had changed his mind, which wouldn’t do at all.

He lay, paralysed with indecision, as the covers warmed up and the scent of clean linen and Crowley curled around him comfortingly. There was no denying it was pleasant, and the day had been a long one. The last few years, indeed, thought Aziraphale, wondering when exactly he had last tried sleeping. He had a feeling it was after that trip to Paris, with the unfortunate guillotine business, and the much more pleasant crepes afterwards. Or was it more recent than that? He couldn’t recall.

Still wondering, his breathing slowed, and the angel fell asleep.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I’m peeling an onion,” replied Aziraphale, with all the grace he could muster whilst leaning over a kitchen wastebin._   
  
_Crowley leaned over and observed, his head on one side. “Are you?” he asked dubiously._   
  
_“This is called a vegetable peeler, and this is an onion, Crowley. I am peeling an onion.” It was true that it didn’t seem to be working very well, but Aziraphale was determined._

\---

When Aziraphale woke, he could smell cocoa. There was a warm, steaming mugful on the nightstand beside him, and on the other side of the bed sat Crowley, illuminated in a shaft of sunlight, just looking down at him. He had taken off his sunglasses, and he was smiling, fine lines at the corners of his yellow eyes crinkling in a most charming way. It was the nicest thing Aziraphale could ever remember waking up to.

“Hello,” said Aziraphale. “That was lovely.”

“Liked it, then?” asked Crowley. 

“Very much,” said Aziraphale, truthfully. It had been very pleasant, even if he couldn’t remember it, as if a secret hiding place had opened up where nothing could bother him, and he had emerged from it refreshed in a way that was unfamiliar. He could quite see why Crowley enjoyed it. Aziraphale sighed happily, and wriggled his shoulders against the soft, warm linens. It felt delicious against his bare skin.

“Did you want me for something?” he asked, eyes closing again.

“Just checking up on you. Wouldn’t mind a kip myself, but I didn’t want to impose.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” Aziraphale began to sit up, then remembered he was wearing very little. Awkwardly he pulled up the covers around him like Grandmother in Red Riding Hood.

“No, no,” said Crowley, shaking his head and standing up at once to back out of the door. “Don’t let me hurry you. Drink up, get dressed, I’ll be downstairs.”

Aziraphale took up his cocoa and blew on it, pondering. He’d never particularly seen the point before, but now he rather fancied investigating sleep further. At the same time, he didn’t want to keep Crowley from it. He ought to buy a nightshirt, and then perhaps they could both sleep at once. It was a very large bed, after all. Of course, another bedroom could also be miracled up, but that idea did not appeal so much. A different bed would not smell of Crowley. 

Aziraphale drained the mug and rose to dress himself. It was bright sunshine outside, he realised, as he wandered downstairs, and the clock told him it was past 10 in the morning. 

“All yours, my dear!” he said. “I might pop into the village.”

Crowley was at the kitchen table, sunglasses back on his face. “Yeah,” he replied, apparently very interested in his wireless telephone. “Have fun.”

Aziraphale headed directly to the grey stone building that housed the village’s local library branch, arriving just as it was opening up. Anathema had given him an idea, and he fully intended to carpe the old diem. Kay, the delightful librarian with the pink hair, helped him to find several baking books with mouthwatering photography, and even ordered him another which would have recipes from the Ancient World. Aziraphale was in raptures at the thought of eating Mersu again after so many thousands of years. He bustled his books up to the checkout desk with his mind full of plans.

“Mr Fell,” began Kay cautiously, checking out each book with a little handheld gadget that went ‘beep’. “You always look smart. Do you think I could get away with gold lipstick at work?”

“Oh, well, I don’t see why not.” Aziraphale tweaked his bow-tie with pride. It was nice to be appreciated, he thought. 

Kay nodded, satisfied, and pushed the stack of books towards him. “That’s what I thought. There was a lady I saw the other day, gave me the idea. I just wondered if it would be unprofessional. But it you think it’s ok, well, it probably is, right?” 

“I’m sure it would be charming,” smiled Aziraphale, already thinking about where he could buy ingredients. 

\--

While Crowley slept, Aziraphale rolled up his sleeves and had a bash at cooking. He had been to the butchers, and the fancy delicatessen, and the cookware gift shops in the village, and come home laden with so many new and exciting purchases that he had to discreetly miracle up a little wheeled tartan trolley to carry them home in. Biscuits were all very well, but having discovered the village’s main restaurant to be deeply disappointing, he was in the mood for something more savoury, and had procured the ingredients for a simple menu of steak with Bearnaise sauce. With some salad leaves from the garden it would be delicious, he was certain, and he made sure to buy two fillets just in case he could persuade Crowley to join him.

It did not go well.

He began by putting the steaks on to cook, on the assumption they would take longest, and then popped out to the garden. It was remarkably hard to determine what sort of leaves were edible when they were still on the bushes, so he tried tasting a few, and after a good traipse about the place was most disgruntled to find none of them seemed to be what he was after at all. His mood was not helped by the sight of smoke escaping from the kitchen window.

Aziraphale dashed back indoors, pushed the window wide open and began desperately wafting at the thick black smoke with a tea-towel, to little avail. He hauled the steaks from under the grill and glared at them. They had shrunk to half their size and looked like small charred bricks. He chewed his lip anxiously. Possibly they just needed a moment to rest.

“Bearnaise or bust,” he said aloud, and began assembling his ingredients. 

Crowley appeared from upstairs, waving his hands to miracle the air clear as he approached.

“Smells like Hell in here, and I should know. Angel, what are you doing?”

“I’m peeling an onion,” replied Aziraphale, with all the grace he could muster whilst leaning over a kitchen wastebin.

Crowley leaned over and observed, his head on one side. “Are you?” he asked dubiously.

“This is called a vegetable peeler, and this is an onion, Crowley. I am peeling an onion.” It was true that it didn’t seem to be working very well, but Aziraphale was determined. 

“Not sure you do it like that.”

Aziraphale was determined, but also distinctly stressed. He could feel the twitch of his wings threatening to burst into the room, and suppressed it with effort. “Dear fellow,” he said, through gritted teeth.

Crowley looked at his face, nodded rapidly, and left him to it. A moment later came the sound of explosions and American accents as the television was switched on, and Aziraphale took a deep breath, girded his metaphorical loins and set back to his own battle.

Two hours and several failures later, he was done, and there was not a single utensil purchased that day that was not lying about the kitchen in some state of disrepair. He lit a candle, poured two glasses of an indifferent wine which immediately became a particularly fine Mersault Charmes he remembered from 1846, and glared at a side-plate until some perfectly grilled and completely out of season asparagus appeared upon it. 

“Dinner,” he announced loudly, “is served.”

From the other room he heard the television fall silent, and Crowley sauntered into the kitchen. Aziraphale gestured gallantly for him to sit down. He did not.

“You’re not going to make me eat that, are you?” said Crowley, looking horrified.

Aziraphale clung to his dignity as best he could. “Of course not. I’m not going to make you do anything. If you don’t want to try my Filet Mignon a la Bearnaise, then that is entirely a matter for you.”

Crowley regarded the table before him. On a plate before each chair sat a cold, congealed, blackened lump that had once been steak, and some watery, tarragon-flavoured scrambled eggs. He picked up the nearest wine glass. 

“Good effort,” he said, and took a swig.

Aziraphale could bear no more. He slumped into a chair and carelessly waved a hand at the bombsite that had once been their kitchen, rendering it miraculously clean and tidy once more. “Bother it, Crowley, I tried so hard!”

“Mm. Tell you what. I bet Anthony would eat it. Garden?”

“Oh! Yes, garden!” Aziraphale picked up his own wine, brightening. He took a long and much-needed drink, peeled off his “Angel in the Kitchen” apron, and followed Crowley outside.

\--

“I was thinking,” said Aziraphale, as they sat companionably upon the bench, which was rapidly becoming his favourite place in the world. “I should get myself a nightshirt.”

Crowley burst out laughing. “A what? Angel, no-one’s worn nightshirts since… I can’t even remember how long. Pyjamas. You want pyjamas. Just miracle some.”

“My dear, you know I don’t like to do that.”

Crowley rolled his mouthful of Mersault around, savouring it. For someone primarily an aesthete, he was more than capable of a little hedonism, thought Aziraphale fondly, and felt glad he had chosen this particular wine. The plates of charred steak lay out on the grass before them, waiting for the fox’s appearance, and some small birds had ventured down to peck at the supposed Bearnaise. The sun was dropping towards the horizon, and overhead flocks of swallows were beginning to cluster along the telegraph wires and chatter to one another.

“Well,” said Crowley, drawing out the vowel enticingly. “Apparently there’s this chap in Brighton who makes clothes the old way, Edwardian stuff like your coat. I could take you there, see if he’ll do it. Get you a new waistcoat, too, so I don’t have to be embarrassed to stand next to you.”

“What’s wrong with my waistcoat?” asked Aziraphale, looking down at it. The plush of the velvet had worn away entirely around the buttons and most of the bottom hem, but it wasn’t as though it had holes in it. It was very nice, and fitted perfectly around his tummy. He had purchased it from a very sweet tailor in Soho over a hundred years ago, the same time he had bought his favourite coat.

“It’s terrible. A terrible waistcoat. Trust me.”

“I suppose it is a bit worn. Do you mean he hand sews them?”

Crowley nodded. “Saw it on TV. All by hand, you’ll love it. You could get some new shirts, or something. Anyway. And it’s by the seaside. We could get sushi.”

“Sushi,” sighed Aziraphale with longing. “What a good idea. Yes, let’s.” 

\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now with [FANTASTIC ART](https://liasangria.tumblr.com/post/187129084496/so-kittydorkling-commissioned-me-to-make-a-banner) commissioned from the AMAZING AND TALENTED [Mith](https://archiveofourown.org/users/liasangria/pseuds/mithrilbikini)!
> 
> Also, for those of you confused by the onion bit... you might want to skip to 1.24 in [this video...](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DHNxuHm6i2s)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Gracious me,” said Aziraphale, beaming. “You look very smart!”_
> 
> _Adam looked down at his clothes with a shrug. “It’s just school uniform,” he said. “The grammar school makes us wear ties. It’s rubbish.”_

\---

The young man in Brighton was as good as Crowley had said. It was inexpressibly soothing to once again feel sure, practiced hands winding the cloth tape-measure about his chest and waist, scribbling down the measurements without all the bother of having to try things on and simply hoping they would fit. Aziraphale could have spent hours in the tiny attic studio discussing the niceties of fine tailoring.

By the time it came to choose fabrics, he was as jolly as a sand-boy, and feeling just a little bit daring. He flipped past the twills and velvets until he reached several vibrant woollens.

“This one,” he said decisively, indicating a jet-black windowpane check on a tawny mustard background. 

The young man nodded, and jotted it down. “You’re sure?” he asked.

Aziraphale looked over to where Crowley had been staring out the window in near-catatonic boredom for over an hour now. It was quite possible his lovely eyes were closed, even. The sunglasses made it sometimes hard to tell. “I’m certain,” he said, and smiled.

They paid, and as good as his word, Crowley took them to a deeply fashionable conveyor-belt sushi restaurant. Every mouthful was a delight, and soon the plates stacked up beside them in towering piles. Crowley ate nothing, content to simply sip sake, delete every fifth contact from all mobile phones in the building, and break the wi-fi. It seemed to cheer him up, and Aziraphale could not find it in himself to object.

The Palace Pier was a thing of beauty, and Crowley smiled with satisfaction at the thronged arcades. In lieu of any ducks, Aziraphale suggested they feed the seagulls, until Crowley warned against it.

“Best not. They’ve been under a fair bit of influence from, uh.” He pointed downwards meaningfully. “Might take your hand off.”

“Did you do that?” asked Aziraphale, already suspecting he knew the answer. It was exactly the sort of low-level evil Crowley specialised in.

“Oh look, ice creams,” said Crowley, pointing over Aziraphale’s shoulder, and headed off. By the time Aziraphale caught up he was already paying the vendor for two enormous vanilla cones with chocolate sauce. He handed one to Aziraphale then gave his own to a small child, on the basis that its parents would be furious that it had accepted. 

The ice cream was delicious, and the two of them wandered back down to the shoreline while Aziraphale enjoyed it. Crowley skimmed stones and hid a few swimmers’ towels, and Aziraphale went paddling in the excruciatingly icy sea, until his feet were pink and white and almost too swollen to fit back into his boots. Crowley mocked his tartan socks and Aziraphale scowled at him, fumbling his laces with cold fingers and muttering about people who didn’t understand fun.

It was a truly marvellous day.

It wasn’t until they’d driven home that he realised he hadn’t asked about a new nightshirt, or pyjamas, or whatever it was to be. He watched Crowley climb the stairs to the bedroom, and sighed. Aziraphale took a copy of Alain de Botton’s latest work, retrieved his bookmark from the relevant page, and settled down to read in the snug. It was harder to concentrate than usual. 

\--

On Thursday afternoon they returned to Tadfield once more. 

Adam and Dog were in the garden of Jasmine Cottage as they arrived, wrestling with a stick. Dog bounded over first, licking Aziraphale’s hands and leaping up to leave muddy prints on Crowley’s trousers, which he miracled away irritably. A red ball appeared in his hand and he threw it to the other end of the garden. Dog, overjoyed, raced off after it.

“Gracious me,” said Aziraphale, beaming. “You look very smart!”

Adam looked down at his clothes with a shrug. “It’s just school uniform,” he said. “The grammar school makes us wear ties. It’s rubbish.”

“Smash the system,” said Crowley approvingly. “How’s it going, anyway?”

“Okay, I s’pose.” He looked at his feet and scuffed at a few leaves on the lawn.

“Are you sure?” 

Adam looked up at them and smiled, an uncombed cherub from some Renaissance masterpiece in an ill-fitting blazer and an untucked shirt. 

“I’m glad you’re here. Ana and me have been wanting to talk to you. Pepper and Brian and Wensley are my best friends, but they don’t really understand, and they don’t really remember. Or they do, but not properly. It’s better that way, I think.”

Aziraphale studied Adam, this small and lanky creature before him, so fragile and yet so strong. What was it like, to be human and eleven years old? Impossible to imagine. “That sounds rather lonely,” he said gently. 

Adam looked him in the eye. “Being different to everyone else around you? Knowing more than they can ever even understand?” He pulled a face. “You manage.”

There was a snort of amusement from Crowley, who was idly examining a nearby tree with white bark. “He’s got you there.”

“Well,” said Aziraphale. “You’ve got us, here. I said we’d be beside you, Adam, and I meant it. If you should ever need us.”

“You said that, I didn’t,” muttered Crowley, apparently addressing a leaf. Dog bounded towards him happily and dropped the red ball back at his feet, then proceeded to piss on the tree’s trunk in sufficient volume that the demon was obliged to skip out of the way, snarling. He threw it again, and Dog scampered again off with boundless joy. 

Adam’s gaze never faltered, but he grinned. “You tried to shoot me.”

Before Aziraphale could summon a suitable answer, Anathema appeared in the cottage doorway. “You got here!” she exclaimed. “Come on in, I made more biscuits.”

“Biscuits!” said Aziraphale, with unfeigned delight, and hurried indoors.

Ana was already sitting down at the kitchen table as they piled into the cottage, with Newton standing anxiously behind her. Luckily Adam was only small, and Aziraphale was able to tuck himself into a seat at the table without too much trouble. Crowley hung back as before.

“Crowley, do come in. There’s plenty of room.” Aziraphale patted the chair beside him, and looked meaningfully at Crowley, who shrugged.

“Can’t,” he said, and pointed.

Aziraphale followed the line of his finger. On the kitchen wall, below a Welsh lovespoon and just next to a faded cross-stitch reading _“Blesse thys Messe”_ was a small replica tile bearing an inscription in Sumerian runes, not a language one often saw any more. Specifically, it was in a notably colourful dialect thereof.

“Oh, sorry!” Anathema jumped up to stuff the plaque into the nearest cupboard, turning as she did so to explain to Adam. “It’s an ancient ward of protection. It says ‘Let Evil Begone From This Place’.”

“No it doesn’t,” said Crowley drily. “It says ‘Fuck Off Demons’.”

“Crowley,” said Aziraphale. “May I remind you there are children present.” 

“S’alright, I don’t mind,” said Adam, through a mouthful of biscuit. He looked not so much offended as delighted.

Across the room, Newton cleared his throat nervously. “You really are a demon, then?” 

Crowley stepped through the doorway and smiled, the sort that was very wide and showed every tooth. He draped himself into the last remaining chair, leaning back in it with a foot resting up against the rungs of Aziraphale’s. “Shall we check? Would you like to see my true form?”

“Crowley!” snapped Aziraphale again, at the same time as Anathema said “Newton!”

For all real intents and purposes, both Aziraphale and Crowley’s true forms were the ones they were currently wearing and had inhabited for the past 6,000 years. However, Crowley was perfectly capable of shapeshifting into something that could make any human pass out instantly, if they were lucky, or leave them a permanently drooling shell of themselves if not. 

“Please excuse my husband,” said Anathema, rolling her eyes.

Aziraphale smiled. “If you’ll excuse mine,” he replied, without thinking. 

There was a long pause as the room digested that statement. Adam sniggered.

Gleefully, Anathema slapped the kitchen table. “I knew it! I knew that’s what was up with your auras, didn’t I say, Newt? You owe me five stupid British pounds, pay up.”

“Oh, we’re not,” said Aziraphale, looking to Crowley for help, as he ever had.

Newton was fishing a five pound note out of his wallet. “Boyfriends still counts,” Anathema told him, holding her hand out.

“We’re definitely not.” Crowley’s tone was flat and his volume high enough to cut through all excitement. Something in how absolute he sounded pinched at Aziraphale’s heart.

“Rainbow auras aren’t gay anyway,” said Adam. “You said. It means it’s a soul’s first time on earth. It was in your books.”

“That’s completely right,” agreed Anathema, though she seemed flustered. “I didn’t mean any offence, I’m sorry.”

“None taken,” said Crowley, and Aziraphale pulled the plate of biscuits a little closer. 

It had never bothered him before, when people had made such assumptions. He had rather liked it, in fact. It felt different now, however, somehow too sharp, too close to something he was not yet brave enough to reach out towards. He wondered how Crowley felt about it.

There was talk about the planning of weddings and how outrageously overpriced they were, and Anathema waxed wroth for a while about the Wedding Industrial Complex, which turned out to be more of a metaphor than a real place. Aziraphale offered sympathy without really understanding, since as far as he could recall one simply bought new clothes and signed a church register. Evidently things had become more complex since he had last attended such an event. It ended with Anathema inviting them to the ceremony and copying down the biscuit recipe by hand, despite Aziraphale’s protestations that he would remember it and Crowley’s offer to photograph it with his telephone. 

They talked a little about Adam’s new school, which he did not seem particularly impressed with.  
Newton explained that he was between jobs and wondering whether to take up Madam Tracey’s offer to train him as a massage therapist, a job which involved no computers at all, and Aziraphale made encouraging comments in an attempt to drown out Crowley’s sniggering. 

At length the hour grew late enough that Adam had to return home, and Aziraphale and Crowley took that as their cue. 

“I’ll walk you back,” said Anathema, reaching for her keys, and Crowley held up a hand. 

“I’ll do that. Not like much is going to come at me.”

“That’s not why,” snorted Adam. “It’s so I actually go straight home and don’t go and scrump apples with Dog.” 

“Really?” Crowley raised his eyebrows as he led the boy away. “Let’s talk about that, shall we?”

Aziraphale offered to help wash up, though he proved to be very bad at it, so Anathema handed him a teatowel and took the broken mugs out to the bins behind the cottage while Newton took over at the sink.

“Newton,” asked Aziraphale cautiously once they were alone. “I wonder if you could help me with something.”

Newton looked mildly terrified, but since that appeared to be his usual state, Aziraphale did not let it put him off.

“What do, er. What do humans wear in bed, these days? Is it pyjamas? Where does one buy them?”

The young man appeared in danger of scrubbing right through the plate in his hand. 

“Um. Anathema threw mine out, actually. I’m allowed a t-shirt and boxer shorts if it’s cold, but otherwise. Er. My old ones were from Marks and Spencers I think. My mum bought them for me.”

As he spoke, Newton’s face had flushed to an alarming shade of puce, and Aziraphale elected not to press further. 

He remembered disrobing for the bath of Holy Water in Hell, and the vest and shorts he had discovered beneath Crowley’s remarkably tight trousers, and the similar combination the demon had worn when Aziraphale had surprised him at his London flat. So that was both underwear and nightwear, he pondered, and one purchased it at Marks and Spencer. How ingenious humans were.

And then Crowley returned, with suspiciously apple-sized bulging pockets, and it was time to drive home.

\--

“She’s having visions, according to Adam,” said Crowley, and Aziraphale frowned, wondering if he had missed the beginning of the conversation somehow.

“Who is? Ana?”

“Yup. Usual prophetic nonsense, flying cars, people in funny clothes,” said Crowley, casually screeching around a hairpin bend. “Sword-wielding angels on a stormy hilltop. And a few other things. Adam drawing Tarot cards and a fox eating cake in a garden. Under an apple tree.”

“I’d never feed Anthony cake. It would be bad for him.”

“Depends on the Anthony.”

“Oh dear,” said Aziraphale, a little flustered by Crowley’s smile. “I did wonder, after we saw her last. Do you think any of it is likely to be accurate?”

Crowley looked over his glasses at Aziraphale, without slowing down. “From her? Wouldn’t you?”

“Oh dear,” sighed Aziraphale again. “It was all going so well, too.”

“Ah, it’s not so bad,” said Crowley, catching some air over a small humpback bridge. “Keep us busy.”

_“I don’t want to be busy,”_ thought Aziraphale. He didn’t know what he did want, but he was aware it probably had more to do with the word “boyfriends” than “prophecies”. Maybe even “husbands”. 

He regarded the apple Crowley had handed him as they got in the car, and took a large, resigned bite. 

\--


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Aziraphale spread his arms out wide and smiled. “The Ritz is a bit of a distance from here, don’t you think? So I thought we were about due for a picnic.”_
> 
> _There was a fractional change in how Crowley was standing. “A picnic?” he asked warily._

\---

It was a glorious morning, the skies clear and bright with a light chill just beginning to touch the air, so Aziraphale decided to make the most of it. He brought his book out to the garden, and sat on the bench to read.

If he spent more time watching Crowley’s intense conversations with various plants, perhaps that was simply the fault of Richard Dawkins’s tedious proselytising. 

The demon was examining the little tree in the centre of their garden, the one he had said was an apple tree. There were a number of orchards around Milton village, and most of them seemed heavy with fruit at the moment, but not theirs, on which nary an apple could be seen. Aziraphale wasn’t quite sure why that would be, but certainly Crowley was not pleased, hissing furiously as he pruned a leaf here and there with precise savagery. 

The September sunshine was pale but no less glorious for that, and it caught on Crowley’s hair, painting the strands a brighter red that almost shimmered as he circled the unfortunate tree. 

“Do you remember when it was long?” asked Aziraphale, unable to stay quiet a moment longer.

Crowley paused mid-snip, and faced him in confusion. “Not following.”

He had begun, so Aziraphale took the plunge and continued. “Your hair. I just - here you are, in a garden, and it reminded me of how you looked when we met.”

Frowning, Crowley nodded. “I remember. You think I should go back to that?”

“Um,” said Aziraphale. He was faintly aware of his heart beating extremely quickly for some reason, and his breath becoming shorter. “You could. Actually I liked it best in Mesopotamia, with the little, you know, braids.” He drew a finger down the side of his head, to indicate.

“Huh.” Crowley turned away. Back to his plants, Aziraphale assumed, but it wasn’t so.

He had set down the shears and dug his fingers into his hair, sliding them across his scalp. As he did so, the strands of dark copper lengthened. Drawn out under his hands, the hair fell past Crowley’s jawline, the longest it had been in centuries, then down and down until it hung just below his shoulderblades, rippling in waves like a burning waterfall. It was quite the most beautiful miracle Aziraphale had ever seen. 

Crowley shook his head, and ran his fingers through it twice more, separating out the soft curls and pulling it back from the sharp angles of his face so that the weight of it hung mostly over one shoulder. He turned back to Aziraphale. “Like that?”

Aziraphale stared, aware that his mouth was open. It required a conscious effort to close it again and remember how to speak. “Yes,” he said.

“Might get in the way. You’ll have to put the braids in for me later, not sure I remember how,” said Crowley, grinning like a snake. It was as if he knew the effect he was having, and enjoyed it.

Emboldened, Aziraphale beamed back at him. “You could get rid of the sunglasses, too. I’ve never liked them.”

Crowley’s smile vanished, and he bent to pick up his pruning shears once more. “That,” he said, “would be a bit of a giveaway. We’re not in Mesopotamia now, Angel. Not all of us get to play human.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, and the moment was lost. “Of course. My apologies.”

He gave up on the book shortly after, and went indoors to stuff it back onto the shelves of the snug.

\--

The parcel containing Aziraphale’s new waistcoat arrived later that morning, along with two new shirts in fine pale linen, all wrapped in acid-free tissue and quite simply splendid. It was so long since Aziraphale had owned new clothes of really good quality, and he could not help putting the whole lot on immediately. He paired it with a rather stylish dark-flecked tweed bow tie and found himself preening in every reflective surface he could find. The greenhouse, with all its glass, was an excellent spot.

“Do you like it?” he asked, and Crowley rolled his eyes. It might not have been the first time Aziraphale had asked.

“Yes, Angel,” he said, and muttered something that sounded like “Rupert the Bear.”

Aziraphale did a little twirl. “Do you know what I’d really like? A public dance. I learned to dance quite well while you were asleep all that time. Why don’t we have those any more, they used to be such fun. There was punch, and music, and all sorts.”

“They do,” said Crowley absently. “Call them nightclubs these days.” He saw the look of hope in Aziraphale’s eyes and shook his head vigorously. “Oh, no. No no no. You wouldn’t like it. Lots of beebop.”

Aziraphale pouted, but Crowley would not be moved. Still, it couldn’t dampen his mood for long. A thought had been germinating in his mind and now was as good a time as any to act upon it. He smoothed his hands appreciatively over his bright, woollen stomach and wandered down to the village for supplies.

The owner of Freeman’s Grocers was a charming, ruddy-faced old man with an extraordinary overbite who reminded Aziraphale of someone he couldn’t quite put his finger on. He was talking to his young son and spraying around some sort of air-freshener as Aziraphale entered the shop.

“Bathing in slurry or sommat, I ha’n’t smelt anything quite like it in all my days!” the old man was saying. “And did you see ‘im face? Boils and pox like I never seen! Can’t be selling anything ‘ee touched, dirty bugger, you go around and check the produce, boy. Ah, Mr Fell! What can I do you for, sir?”

“Good morning!” said Aziraphale, producing his shopping list. “Just a few little sundries. Has something happened?”

“Arr,” said Mr Freeman. “Fella just been in, unpleasant sort of customer. Not that he bought anything. Never you mind.”

The excellent Mr Freeman was able to provide all that Aziraphale wanted, and he returned home to bake. It was becoming rather a meditative exercise for him, now that he had practised a little more, and with care and unhurried attention (and careful reading of recipes) the whole process could be very soothing. He rather needed soothing, just at present. He had very a nasty feeling about Mr Freeman’s previous customer, and the woman with gold lipstick in the library. 

He had hoped, in his usual cowardly fashion, that he and Crowley would have more time. A breathing space to collect themselves, to understand what they could be in this new world. He supposed they had, if only of a month or so. Now it seemed that was drawing to an end already and very little had been resolved. It was a frightening thought, but Aziraphale had decided anything since the Ineffable Incident, it was this: he did not wish to be afraid, not any more, not after six thousand years in constant fear of falling. 

Aziraphale baked through the afternoon into the evening, after Crowley had popped his head around the door and announced he was turning in. Outside, the squeaking of bats became the hooting and calling of owls as the night drew on. Aziraphale hummed to himself, whipping cream and neatly arranging apple slices, taking solace in these small rituals. Whatever was coming, he hoped he and Crowley would face it together.

By early morning he felt he had a very creditable spread prepared. He buckled plates and glasses into the lid of a picnic basket and carefully laid his goods within its gingham-lined interior.

Last of all, he made himself a cup of cocoa, and retired to his snug for a little reading and some Schubert while he waited for Crowley to rise. A novel called “American Gods” had been waiting for him and with a sigh of pleasure he opened it to the first page.

\--

A knock sounded at the door to the snug, and Crowley peered in. His hair was still long, tied back low on his neck with what looked like a leather bootlace.

“Look, I can’t stand it any more. What’s the basket about?”

Aziraphale reached for a bookmark, and placed it with some surprise at page 400. It had proven rather an absorbing read, if also a frankly preposterous one. More gods than one could shake a stick at. 

“Oh, I lost track of the time!” he exclaimed, glancing at the clock. “I’m so sorry.”

“Is it cake? Is it cake for us, or what? Because it smells bloody amazing and I’m just going to eat it if you take much longer.”

“Not much longer, I promise,” said Aziraphale, patting Crowley’s shoulder as he squeezed through the corridor past him and up the stairs. He fetched the coverlet from the bedroom, the basket from the kitchen, and carried them about a dozen yards out to their little apple tree, where he began to set everything out.

“What is this? What are you doing?” asked Crowley, following him out of the house.

Aziraphale spread his arms out wide and smiled. “The Ritz is a bit of a distance from here, don’t you think? So I thought we were about due for a picnic.”

There was a fractional change in how Crowley was standing. “A picnic?” he asked warily.

“Yes, my dear,” said Aziraphale. “I think it’s time.”

Crowley sniffed. “Bit chilly. Not really weather for it.”

Aziraphale merely looked at him. Spread across the rug on china plates were a tarte tatin, a pear and ginger teabread, and the pièce de résistance, a passionfruit pavlova. There was a jug of pouring cream, and one of miraculously hot custard, and a thermos flask of mulled wine. Aziraphale flicked out his coat tails behind him and sat, pouring a tumbler-full for himself.

Grumbling, Crowley joined him, though he didn’t have quite the limbs to sit on the ground without resembling a partially-squashed spider and it took him a while to arrange himself. Aziraphale cut a piece of tarte and passed it over to him, and begrudgingly, Crowley ate.

“This,” he said a moment later, somewhat indistinctly. “This is very good.”

“I’m glad,” said Aziraphale. He waited until Crowley’s mouth was full once more, then took a deep breath. “Well. Here goes. Firstly I want to apologise. I’m afraid I’ve treated you rather badly, Crowley. I owe you a great deal more than I can ever repay.”

“You don’t,” said Crowley, swallowing rapidly and immediately setting down his plate. 

“Come now, my dear. Almost since we met, you’ve looked out for me. You’ve taken terrible risks for my sake.”

“No I didn’t, not really. I fell, I’m a demon, eternally cursed, irredeemable, what did I have to lose?” 

“We both know that’s nonsense. If they’d caught you, fraternising...”

Crowley waved a hand, cutting him off. “I tempted an actual angel into a pact with a demonic entity. Frame it right, I could probably have got a medal.” 

Aziraphale took a moment to consider this, as Crowley kept talking, leaning urgently forward as he spoke. “You don’t need to apologise. You trusted me. You actually believed that a demon would do blessings and miracles, just because I said I would.”

“I never doubted,” said Aziraphale, wondering quite why that was for the first time. He had known, somehow, from the first, that any promise Crowley made to him, he would keep. That the demon was more constant, more faithful than any Angel Aziraphale had ever met. If he’d had fears, they were only of Heaven’s wrath, were they ever to have been found out. The thought made Aziraphale sigh.

“You’ll never know what that meant to me, Angel,” said Crowley. “I’d missed it so much.” 

“But I’ve been such a coward, for such a long time,” persisted Aziraphale. “I didn’t dare question things, I think I was worried you’d turn out to be right. Those poor drowned children. The plagues. And still I did as I was told.”

“You’re not a coward. I know what those bastards are like, remember.”

Aziraphale looked up through the tree’s branches, collecting his thoughts. He noticed the tiniest green lump at the edge of one branch, the first of their apples at last. To think that they had nearly lost all of this. To think that Heaven would have welcomed such a thing.

“Wasn’t I?” he asked Crowley, his heart rising in his throat. “All those centuries, trying to cling to certainties that didn’t really exist in the end.” 

Crowley was watching him, utterly still. “I’m your certainty. I exist. You can cling to me, always, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale could feel the tears prickling against his eyes. This wasn’t going quite as he had anticipated, but then, with Crowley, what ever had? 

“Thank you,” he said, although it came out a bit wobbly. “That sounds lovely.”

Tentatively he reached across to where Crowley’s long, bony hand lay against the plaid coverlet, and laid his own atop it. Crowley’s hand turned over, stretching, and Aziraphale wound their fingers together. The skin felt dry, and cooler than his own, and the rush of love that poured into Aziraphale’s touch was breathtaking. 

“Oh,” he said shakily. “It’s so much.” He looked up to Crowley’s face, trying to explain, but Crowley was staring at him, equally stunned.

“What is?” asked Crowley hoarsely.

“The love,” said Aziraphale, awed by it. “You love me so much, my dear.” 

“Well, yeah,” said Crowley. “Always have.”

“I could always sense it,” said Aziraphale. “I didn’t realise what it was for a while, but it’s always there, always, and it’s grown, if anything. You’ve been so patient, loved me for so long, and I’ve never deserved it.” 

“You do. Don’t argue.” 

Aziraphale gulped a tearful laugh, and grasped Crowley’s hand tighter. He heard Crowley suck in a sudden breath, staring down at where they were touching.

“There’s something,” he said, so softly it was almost inaudible. “Is that what it is? Warm and bright… and good.” He looks at Aziraphale. “I can feel it too. I remember. The love.”

“I’m so glad, my darling,” said Aziraphale, blinking away the tears that blurred his vision. “Because I love you very much, you know. Not as an Angel loves the world, I mean I do, but I don’t only love you that way. I love you, Crowley.”

“Oh,” said Crowley, still staring at their joined hands. His eyes behind the dark glasses were wide.

“I’m sorry it took me so long to catch up,” said Aziraphale. 

“Don’t be. Worth it,” said Crowley, biting his lip as if he too was trying not to cry. “You love me.”

Aziraphale smiled. “Yes, my dear. I do.”

Holding Crowley’s hand felt different to anything Aziraphale had ever experienced before. The sense of love that surrounded them bloomed brighter and larger, and there was a feeling of freedom to it. He wondered how it must feel to Crowley. He seemed rather overwhelmed, but then so was Aziraphale. This was not a dutiful love, but one of choice, and desire, and it made more difference than expected. 

Aziraphale revelled in it, breathing deeply, learning the precise texture of Crowley’s skin at last, even if it was just one hand. He mapped it with his heart, and inscribed it onto his soul. 

“There’s an apple up there, by the way,” he said, pointing.

Crowley looked up, startled, and saw it. “Huh. I thought the blessed thing must be barren.” 

He shifted position at once, as if he wanted to stand up and examine the fruit, then stopped.

“It’ll still be there tomorrow,” he said. His thumb rubbed gently at the back of Aziraphale’s hand. 

\--

Hours later, Anthony the fox slunk towards the forgotten spread of pavlovas and tarts, tongue lolling hopefully, and Aziraphale worried that so much sugar would be bad for his teeth.

“Once won’t hurt,” said Crowley, his smile flashing white in the darkness. 

“Oh, you demon,” laughed Aziraphale. “He can’t have all of it though, help me pick these up. There’s plenty left, I shall keep some to take to the Pulsifers for tea.”

Grumbling quietly, Crowley helped to pack up the remains of the picnic, and they went indoors. If change was afoot, then at least some changes were for the better.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“So!” said Aziraphale. “I understand you’ve all started Higher School?”_
> 
> _“High School,” corrected Adam. He was sitting on the nearest thing to a chair in the vicinity, surrounded by items of childhood detritus. Wensleydale and Aziraphale sat before him like an audience, and Brian was cross-legged on the ground a little further away. “It’s rubbish.”_

\---

“There’s something I ought to tell you,” said Aziraphale the following day. It was a drizzly, grey morning, which seemed fitting for bad news.

“I’m afraid I think we’re being watched, by your former Head Office and my own. A number of people in the village have mentioned some peculiar-sounding characters to me which very much sound like either Upstairs or Down. Given how bad they appear to be at going undercover, I’m afraid they may be, shall we say, Senior Management.” 

“I know,” agreed Crowley glumly. “Pretty sure I saw one of yours hanging around the Garden Centre last week, the beige one. Well, you’re all beige, but I mean the really beige one, the one that was a human back in the early days. Shortarse with a bow ‘round his neck.”

“Sandalphon,” sighed Aziraphale. “Ugh. What do you think we should do?”

Crowley shrugged. “Not much we can do. Although it might be worth warning the humans. Speccy Boy and Book Girl, and the kid of course.”

“You know their names,” said Aziraphale, without much censure. He reached across to touch Crowley’s hand and felt a warm shiver of joy across his skin. “I suppose we shall be seeing them on Tuesday, but I wonder. I think it might put my mind at rest to warn them as soon as we can.”

“Can’t hurt.” Crowley smiled at him, squeezing his hand in return, just briefly. He tossed back the last of his coffee, pushed back his chair, and grabbed his jacket.

\--

It was the weekend, not that the Pulsifers seemed to keep any sort of office hours, so when they arrive in Tadfield Aziraphale had reasonable hopes of finding them in. He was disappointed. 

“Perhaps we should have telephoned?” he asked Crowley anxiously.

Crowley was leaning on the garden’s iron gate, looking utterly unbothered. “Never mind. Pub?”

Tadfield was idyllic in a more parochial, less well-heeled sort of way than Milton, although the two were very similar. It still maintained a village green, and beside it a pub of the sort that had put away its horse brasses, painted its woodwork a shade of anaemic teal, and begun to serve “paninis” instead of “toasties” at double the price. Outside the door, baskets of fading flowers hung above a few empty wooden picnic tables.

“Cold out here,” grumbled Crowley, folding his arms across his chest. 

“You could always wear a jumper,” Aziraphale told him, and Crowley recoiled in disgust. 

He pondered whether it was worth explaining why exactly he had wanted to sit outside in the middle of Tadfield, when the point became moot. Out of nowhere, a small black-and-white bundle of hairy enthusiasm rocketed across the grass and jumped into Crowley’s lap, slathering his face with loving kisses.

“Get off!” Crowley flailed wildly at the dog whilst trying to keep from knocking his wine over, and narrowly avoided falling off the bench.

“Dog!” called Adam cheerfully, from a dozen yards away. “Get down, you bad Dog!” 

He ran towards them, a lead dangling in his hand, and the rest of the Them following on his heels. Aziraphale bent to ruffle Dog’s fur, and fished one of Anthony’s biscuits from his pocket. Dog fell upon it eagerly, and it kept the beast away from Crowley. 

“He slipped his lead,” said Adam as he approached, none too apologetically, and grabbed Dog’s collar to clip it back on. “He must like you. What are you guys doing here?”

Aziraphale smiled. “Hello there, Adam. How nice to run into you. We were hoping to see Ana, but she wasn’t in.”

“They went to visit Newt’s mum for the weekend,” replied Adam, though he was addressing Crowley. “Your hair’s long.”

Crowley was surreptitiously miracling canine saliva and dog fur from his clothes. “Well spotted,” he said, in a tone that dripped sarcasm.

"It's very long," said Wensleydale admiringly. 

Pepper pointed at Aziraphale. “I remember you. You were at the Airbase when we went on that weird Open Day. How come you’re back?”

“We’ve, um, moved to the area?” 

“They’re friends of mine,” said Adam. “Like Ana and Newt.”

This seemed to be accepted this easily enough. Three pairs of eyes regarded Aziraphale and Crowley warily, childhood shyness laced with just a soupçon of sullen teenage suspicion. They all looked much as they had before the Ineffable Incident: Pepper watchful and guarded, Wensleydale anxious, and Brian hanging back behind them all, confused but mostly just extremely grubby. 

Aziraphale rubbed his hands cheerfully. “Now then. Who here fancies an ice-cream?”

Any faintly lingering hostility in the atmosphere instantly disappeared. 

“With a flake?” asked Wensleydale hopefully. Aziraphale looked at Adam for an indication of what might be an appropriate response, and the boy nodded fractionally.

“Absolutely!” agreed Aziraphale. “Why not!”

\--

The Them’s favourite hangout was not kind to ecru linen, and Aziraphale was very grateful to Pepper for the loan of her red poncho to sit on, even if it was proffered with some considerable eye-rolling. He arranged it neatly across a bit of tree stump, and lowered himself onto it with care. Dog frolicked merrily around him in the fallen leaves, and Aziraphale hoped that the squelching ground underfoot was only mud. In any case he knew it would not be kind to his boots.

Nearby, Crowley leaned against a tree in his usual nonchalant fashion, his expression unreadable behind his glasses. The Them had finished their icecreams on the walk over, and seemed confused as to why Adam’s grownup friends were still around.

“So!” said Aziraphale. “I understand you’ve all started Higher School?”

“High School,” corrected Adam. He was sitting on the nearest thing to a chair in the vicinity, surrounded by items of childhood detritus. Wensleydale and Aziraphale sat before him like an audience, and Brian was cross-legged on the ground a little further away. “It’s rubbish.”

“It is rubbish,” said Pepper. She was collecting small nuts from the ground and seeing how far she could throw them. Her aim and ferocity were rather alarming. “You have to wear a tie. My mum says they’re sublimating our individuality to make us more susceptible to the propaganda of the status quo.”

“Excuse me, what does that actually even mean?” asked Wensleydale, and Pepper rolled her eyes as if the question was beneath her. Aziraphale suspected she was avoiding answering it. He wasn’t sure he could have done so himself.

The stump beneath his rear was far from comfortable, and Aziraphale adjusted his position awkwardly. “Well. You all had a good summer, I hope?”

Wensleydale nodded. “My parents took me to Jodrell Bank, actually, and it was very interesting.” 

“Me and mum went to Corfu,” said Pepper. “It was wicked hot, and I got heatstroke, and then we missed our flight and had to sleep in the airport overnight.”

“And of course there was the, um. The Open Day. At the Airfield.”

“Yeah,” said Pepper, sounding uninterested. “I suppose.”

“It was pretty boring,” agreed Wensleydale. “No offence, Mr Fell.”

“What about you, Brian?” asked Aziraphale, hoping he had remembered the dirty boy’s name correctly. He hadn’t joined in with the conversation at all, yet, still sitting at a distance with his knees drawn up and his arms wrapped around them.

“My dad’s girlfriend’s pregnant,” mumbled Brian. He appeared to be mostly speaking to his own shoes.

The Them received this news in the same silence as Aziraphale and Crowley. It didn’t sound like an entirely joyful announcement, and it certainly didn’t seem to answer the question that had been asked.

“Actually, I didn’t know your dad had a girlfriend,” said Wensleydale. 

“He met her at a Graduate Recruitment Fair,” said Brian, even more quietly. 

Pepper’s head snapped up to attention. “How old is she?” she demanded. 

Brian looked wretched. “23. She’s very pretty.”

“23 is quite old,” said Wensleydale thoughtfully. “But your dad is... very old. He’s got a beard and it’s mostly grey.”

Brian unfolded suddenly, throwing himself back against what was hopefully only dirt and dead leaves. His eyes were closed and his face screwed up with anguish. “Mum’s really pissed off. She says he’s a fuckstruck idiot. She says it won’t last.”

Under his breath, Crowley muttered something that sounded like “fuckstruck” in an admiring tone, as if he was making a note.

“Now, you can’t know that,” said Aziraphale hurriedly. “Love is a very powerful thing. The greatest of all! It can move mountains.”

“If it is love,” scoffed Pepper. She kicked at a pile of leaves. “Societal conditioning and ego massages, that’s all. When the novelty wears off she’ll go, and he’ll just have to pay child maintenance forever. Serves him right.”

“No,” said Brian, opening his eyes to look at her. “I want… I want the baby to grow up with a family. Not like you and me, like Adam and Wensleydale. But I always wanted Dad to come back, too. I don’t know what I want. I wish it hadn’t happened.” 

“But actually, it has happened,” said Wensleydale helpfully. 

There was another long pause, and Aziraphale struggled to think of what to say. Misery and confusion were rolling off Brian in waves so strong it was quite distracting.

It was Crowley who broke the silence. “Adam. What do you think?” 

Adam had been scratching Dog’s head and poking the ground with a stick while he listened. He shrugged and spoke slowly, as if thinking aloud. 

“I think everyone’s right, sort of. They might break up, but they might not, and we don’t know how much they love each other, but probably neither do they. I mean, my mum and dad have been married forever, a few months is nothing. And like Wensley said, it has happened, there’s going to be a new person, this baby, so all we can do is love it. That’s all. Love the baby as much as we can, and maybe it’ll turn out okay.”

Brian sat up, and Adam smiled at him. “That’s the main thing, I reckon.” 

Relief settled upon Aziraphale. “Well said,” he murmured, and shared a look with Crowley. The demon looked equally pleased, although he was clearly trying to hide it.

Adam grinned and stood up, warming to his subject. “Maybe it’ll be really good. I mean, you’re going to be the best big brother, and we’re going to be brilliant aunties and uncles,” he said, enthusiasm aroused. “We’ll teach them how to climb trees and do the best weapon combos in Fortnite.”

Brian sniggered, and even Pepper seemed to already be considering the matter in a more positive light. Aziraphale was a being of pure Love older than these children could even imagine, and he was pretty sure he couldn’t have put it any better. Any fears he might have had for their wellbeing seemed suddenly rather silly. What extraordinary creatures these humans were, so full of love and imagination and hope, hope above all.

Although as to what Fortnite was, he couldn’t imagine.

\--

On their way home, Aziraphale popped a note through the door of Jasmine Cottage inviting them for tea on Monday, and Crowley scrawled his telephone number at the bottom just in case. They drove back to Milton, where a cellar of fine wines and a garden bench awaited them.

\--

“What was all that about, then?” asked Crowley, one bottle down already. They had taken up their usual seats on the bench in the garden, sharing some deep red oakey vintage of Crowley’s conjuring.

Aziraphale pondered the question. “I suppose I just wanted to make sure they were all right. It was hardly a walk in the park, after all, all that business with, well.”

“The Apocaflop. The narrowly averted supernatural annihilation of their entire world. Armageddidn’t.” Crowley swirled the liquid in his glass, experimenting with names. It seemed to amuse him, a corner of his mouth twitching as if he was trying not to laugh at his own jokes.

“Quite so. But Adam’s right, they really don’t seem to remember much at all.” 

“And that was worth the whole afternoon, was it? Could’ve clicked your fingers and found that out in two minutes.”

“I’m sorry, dearest,” said Aziraphale, fond even in the face of Crowley’s dismissiveness. “I like to be old-fashioned about things, you know that. However, I don’t think we need worry about them. Certainly not with Adam around.”

“He’s a remarkable child. Even now.” Crowley had taken off his glasses and untied his hair, and was running his fingers through the long strands distractedly. “Did you warn him about the, hmm, troublesome elements in the area?”

“No. I didn’t feel I could mention it in front of the other children,” sighed Aziraphale, half-hiding his face in his own glass of wine. He should have managed that better, really.

“Probably fine,” said Crowley. “It’ll be us they’re after.”

“What a comforting thought.” 

Aziraphale gazed broodily out to where a few dog biscuits awaited Anthony’s return. It didn’t do to watch Crowley playing with his hair for too long. It only made Aziraphale want to touch it himself, and he wasn’t quite sure if that would be welcomed.

Crowley laid a hand over Aziraphale’s. “We’ll be alright, you know.” 

Warmth and joy spread through Aziraphale from Crowley’s touch, and that was more than enough to soothe his fretting. He liked holding Crowley’s hand. 

“Our side,” he said, and wondered what that might yet come to mean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's worth bearing in mind that we use Fanfiction in a lot of ways and it's not just about writing stories. This chapter in particular was written a while ago, as I was thinking through some Gomens fandom related things. You might not agree with the conclusions drawn in this story, and that's absolutely fair enough, but it was part of a useful process for me. :)
> 
> Also, I really ought to have been thanking the wonderful [McManatea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcmanatea/pseuds/mcmanatea) for their inestimable help in beta'ing this nonsense every chapter!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Newton pushed his glasses back up his nose. “I thought we were getting married in the Village Hall. We’ve paid the deposit.”_
> 
> _“Sweetheart,” said Anathema patiently. “I am literally a multi-millionaire. It’s fine.”_

\---

Aziraphale was watching the gate on Monday, and hurried out to meet Anathema and Newton as they arrived, still clutching a half-drunk mug of cocoa in his eagerness.

“Hello!” he called.

Anathema didn’t seem to quite notice him. She was walking down the garden path like Dorothy encountering Oz for the first time. Behind her, Newton waved awkwardly.

“Oh my god,” breathed Anathema. “Look at this place.”

Obediently, Aziraphale did so. 

It was true the garden was looking wonderful, more so than most in the village as far as he could tell. As far as Aziraphale knew, it was simply down to the time of year. Years were so quick, he often found it hard to tell what month he was in, and it seemed very possible that October might always be as lush as it was at Paradise Cottage.

The leaves upon most of the trees had turned, not brown, but infinite shades of gold and red, like a fire. Very few had fallen to the ground, which was still carpeted in grass dotted artfully with daisies. A rabbit hopped nonchalantly under glossy-leaved bushes where red and purple berries hung in profusion, and songbirds of various sorts eyed them as they warbled from the trees.

The scent of one particular yellow flowering bush was heavy and sweet in the air. Aziraphale thought it might be jasmine, but of course he couldn’t be quite sure, and in the centre of the lawn stood the apple tree, now clustered with small green fruits, though none had yet ripened.

“Oh, well, the garden is rather Crowley’s domain. He’s probably tending his plants, shall we see?” asked Aziraphale, ushering them through.

The original greenhouse had expanded at some point and through an archway to its rear now lay a stone-flagged orangery, where espaliered fruit trees lined the raw brick walls and manicured potted trees stood arranged in perfect symmetry. There was a wood-burning stove to one side, unlit in the warm room, and beside it sat a tall, ornately gilded chair, upholstered in crimson velvet behind a similarly ridiculous marble desk. By rights they should have looked incongruous, yet somehow the combination worked. Seated at it was Crowley, his long hair piled up into a messy bun and a smear of dirt across his cheek, a small potted plant being scrutinised before him. He looked up and scrambled to put on his sunglasses as they approached.

Anathema was in raptures. “Look at the glass, the arches… it’s so gothic! And the trees!”

Crowley looked smug.

“It’s like a church!” said Anathema.

Crowley abruptly ceased to look smug. “No it isn’t.”

“But better,” said Anathema hurriedly. “Way better. Oh, oh, and look at that, oh my. Wow. Oh.” She turned to her husband, swaying on her feet for a moment and grasping his arm as if for support.

“Are you alright?” he asked anxiously, and she nodded, looking up at him with shining eyes. 

“Newton, you’re going to have to trust me on this. We need to get married here.”

Aziraphale, being an angel, loved all humans. It was a generalised sort of love for the most part, and more specifically he usually loved them when they didn't bother him too much. Rare was the human that Aziraphale became close to individually. They were so fragile, with their brief flickering lifespans, that it didn't pay to become attached too often. 

But he liked Anathema, very much. And her suggestion was rather touching. 

“Now, Crowley,” said Aziraphale, as the demon rose from his seat in immediate outrage. “Let’s not be hasty. It might be rather fun.”

Crowley was stalking towards them, fury upon his face. 

Newton pushed his glasses back up his nose. “I thought we were getting married in the Village Hall. We’ve paid the deposit.”

“Sweetheart,” said Anathema patiently. “I am literally a multi-millionaire. It’s fine.”

“Absolutely not,” declared Crowley. “No no no. No.”

“Would there be many guests?” Aziraphale asked, looking about the space. It could be expanded if necessary, of course.

“Is anyone listening to me?” demanded Crowley, not that Aziraphale paid him much attention. He was warming to the idea already. 

“About a dozen for the ceremony,” said Anathema. “Just family and attendants. And then maybe seventy for afterwards, but it’s fine, we’ll use the Village Hall for that, we’re not going to impose.”

“You’re absolutely not,” Crowley agreed. “Because this? Is not happening.”

“Oh, Crowley, you could do the floral arrangements!” said Aziraphale delightedly.

Crowley rounded on him. “Do I look like a bloody florist?”

Aziraphale shot him a reproachful look. “We don’t have to, of course. It’s up to you.”

He met Crowley’s gaze calmly, and waited. Even behind the sunglasses, he could tell Crowley was glaring, and the only thing stopping him from manifesting some horrifying presence was likely the knowledge it wouldn’t scare Aziraphale at all. 

It didn’t take as long as he’d feared for the demon to groan in defeat.

“Fine!” said Crowley, throwing up his hands. “Fine. Just, tickety-boo. Yup. Why not.”

“How marvellous!” said Aziraphale, leading everyone back to the house. “Now, let’s go inside. I have some peppermint brownies that need to be eaten up. They turned out very nicely, though I say it myself.”

Behind them came the sound of a small plant-pot hitting a brick wall and smashing to smithereens, before Crowley followed.

\--

The Pulsifers seemed just as awed by the interior of Paradise Cottage as they had been by the garden, and Aziraphale was so charmed he could hardly help but give them the tour.

“And this is the snug, my little Inner Sanctum,” he said, ushering them through from the kitchen. 

“This… how does this fit? The house isn’t big enough,” said Newton, blinking in confusion. “It’s like the Tardis.”

“Is it?” asked Aziraphale, looking about himself at the shelves that stretched from floor to ceiling, packed with no more than a few hundred of his most favourite books. A Persian rug lay in the centre of the stone flagged floor, and by the window stood his writing desk and his armchair, but there was very little in the way of other ornament, and certainly nothing approaching the clutter of the bookshop. It wasn’t as if he’d miracled everything down from London. He’d been very restrained, to his mind at least. “What’s a Tardis?”

“An imaginary time machine,” said Crowley, loping through the doorway, a glass of what looked like whiskey clutched in one hand. “Well, sort of a time machine. Also a spaceship. Stands for Time And Relative Dimensions In Space. Goes whoosh.”

Aziraphale looked at Crowley in surprise. “How do you know that?”

Crowley fiddled with his glass and made a few incoherent noises before answering. “Just watch a lot of TV.”

“Holy shit,” said Anathema, from outside the room, and Aziraphale went to find her, wondering if this tour had been a bad idea.

“This is signed,” she said, pointing at the rather lovely Mona Lisa cartoon on their sitting room wall. “By Leonardo daVinci.”

It was a nice picture, Aziraphale had always thought so. She had such a sweet smile. He had not actually realised that it was one of Da Vinci’s original sketches, but he supposed it made sense, knowing Crowley. He was something of a connoisseur, and had patronised many artists over the centuries. He’d even made time for it when he was asleep for most of a century, popping over to the Netherlands in 1832 to speak to the brothers Geefs about a potential commission for Liège Cathedral, and had been most proud of the result. 

“It’s just there! On your wall!” spluttered Newton, which was a peculiar sort of objection.

“I suppose everything has to be somewhere,” said Aziraphale, abandoning any plan to take them upstairs. “What can I get you to drink? I have biscuits, if you don’t fancy cake.”

\--

Two teas, one cocoa, a top-up of whiskey and four peppermint brownies later, it seemed time to broach the unfortunate subject at last. Aziraphale glanced at Crowley, who nodded, and took a deep breath. 

“Lovely as it is,” he began, and Newton’s eyes went suddenly wide. He pointed at Crowley, outstretched arm trembling.

“What has happened to your hair?” he all-but-shouted.

There was a long pause while the other three occupants of the table stared at him in confusion.

“It grew,” said Crowley, exasperated. “Have it short again if everyone doesn’t shut up about it.”

“Oh, darling!” protested Aziraphale. The endearment was out before he could stop himself, and Crowley’s expression melted instantly. He reached to touch Aziraphale’s wrist.

“I won’t, you know I won’t,” he murmured.

On the other side of the table, Anathema held out a hand silently to Newton, who was already reaching for his wallet. Aziraphale took the diplomatic decision to ignore it, cleared his throat, and began again.

“Lovely as it is to welcome you to our home,” he said, “I regret that there is also a less happy purpose to this meeting. I’m afraid it appears we may still be under the surveillance of Heaven and possibly also Hell. Probably nothing to worry about, but it seemed wise to warn you both.”

“I know,” sighed Anathema, her shoulders sagging. “I saw them. Well, I didn’t see them, but I saw them.”

“...Oh?” said Aziraphale encouragingly.

Anathema set down her fork, pulled off her glasses with a huff of frustration and set her hands to her temples. 

“I’m having visions,” she announced. “Not much, just flashes here and there. Mostly it’s little things like bad traffic on the way to see Newton’s Mom, but sometimes it’s more than that. Just now when I walked into the greenhouse I saw Newton and me standing there getting married, with flowers in our hair and stars around us. Sorry, by the way.”

“Not at all,” said Aziraphale, and earned himself a scowl from Crowley.

“But yeah,” sighed Anathema, only half listening. “We got lost on the way over and came back through Milton village, and there was this completely gross dude by the grocery store? And a woman by the library with a glowing white head like a streetlight. I don’t know how I knew it, but I knew they weren’t really there. They were more like echoes, after-images or something. And I’m pretty sure they weren’t human.”

“No,” agreed Aziraphale quietly. Anathema was still speaking, increasingly agitated, and Newton had leant over to rub a hand on her back, his expression concerned.

“The biggest was one time I saw four figures on a purple hill, three golden and one more kind of bronze? And I was there, and I knew they were there to cause trouble, and it was bad but I couldn’t make out what exactly was happening because some voice was saying ‘tell the Governor, tell the Governor’. I had the worst headache after that one, I swear.”

“Ooh,” said Aziraphale sympathetically, although he was struggling somewhat to keep up.

Anathema was still going. “And then the next one is like, oh, the postman’s going to be late on Friday. There’s no order to any of it, it’s crazy!”

“So you know when these things are going to happen. That’s useful,” observed Aziraphale.

“Most of the time, but not always. And I don’t know who the Governor is, do you?”

“No idea, I’m afraid,” said Aziraphale. Crowley shook his head. 

She sighed. “Okay. I’m doing some research. There was a Governor in this area a few hundred years ago, that might be it.”

“Have you, uh, told anyone?” Crowley rolled the amber liquid around in his glass, and took a sip.

“Only Adam.”

“And you haven’t seen anything suggesting you or Adam might be in any danger?” pressed Aziraphale. “Or observed any peculiar strangers around Tadfield?”

“Not at all. Not that I can remember, anyway. I can check when I get back home.”

“She’s writing them down,” said Newton proudly, and added: “I’m helping.”

Aziraphale sipped his cocoa and pondered another brownie. There were hardly any left, and it would be more like tidying up than indulging, or perhaps he should give them to the humans to take home. Anathema looked tired, and worried.

“How are the wedding plans?” he asked diplomatically, and she brightened at once. The conversation turned to music, and gift lists, and flowers. Crowley had a few begrudging ideas about the latter subject, and by the time she was shrugging on her coat to leave, Anathema was once again her best self, laughing and happy as she tucked her arm through Newton’s.

“There was another one about you two, I remember now,” she said as she closed the gate behind them, almost as an afterthought. “You were standing in a room of fire, but it didn’t burn you. You were fine.”

“Interesting. Do you recall anything about the room?” asked Aziraphale.

“It was on fire,” she said, and shrugged apologetically.

\--

It was chilly that evening and they had decided to remain indoors, for a change. There was no reason for Aziraphale to take the rocking chair when the sofa was big enough for two, and extremely comfortable besides. The stove was lit, and the room was cosy enough that Aziraphale had taken off his bowtie and unbuttoned his waistcoat entirely. 

“If I did do floral arrangements,” Crowley said, leaning back in his usual sprawl, one arm thrown perilously close to Aziraphale’s shoulders. “Not that I’m going to, but if I did, they’d be fucking amazing.”

“The most amazing,” agreed Aziraphale. “Listen, my dear. I may have got carried away, again. If you really don’t want us to host the ceremony we don’t have to.”

Crowley grumbled for a moment but his heart didn’t seem in it. He reached to top up his glass with another splash of the delightful 1887 Petrus they were sharing and made no reply. 

Aziraphale smiled. Fondly, he tucked a stray lock of auburn hair behind Crowley’s ear, lingering a moment with his fingers against cool, dry skin. “In any case, thank you for indulging me, my love.” 

Any pretence at disgruntlement from Crowley evaporated instantly, and he leaned into the touch like an animal being petted. His mouth opened and closed a few times before any words came out, and then suddenly he frowned. 

“Won’t work every time.”

“What won’t?” asked Aziraphale innocently. He took Crowley’s hand, lacing their fingers together once more. It was just as heady as at first, a warm wave of joy that thrummed deep in his soul. 

More than anything, he wanted to kiss Crowley. He wanted it so badly he wasn’t sure where to begin, and so he simply looked at Crowley, and waited, and hoped, and Crowley looked at him, and neither one of them moved for a long moment.

“I thought I was the demon,” Crowley mumbled, and turned away, taking another gulp of his wine. 

“Well,” said Aziraphale, trying not to feel too disappointed. “They do say couples grow to become more like one another.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Endless thanks are due to [Hoomhum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoomhum/pseuds/hoomhum) for beta-ing this chapter!!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Over the preceding 6,000 years Aziraphale had read a great number of books across a wide variety of genres, and he knew exactly the inevitable result of falling asleep in the same bed as one’s beloved. Specifically, he knew it was all but guaranteed that upon waking both inhabitants of the bed should find themselves quite unexpectedly, but most tightly and tenderly, wrapped in one another’s embrace. _

\---

It had come to Aziraphale’s attention that matters between himself and Crowley were perhaps not as resolved as he had hoped. To touch one another’s hands, to feel the glow of love that suffused every point of contact between them was pleasure of a sort surpassing anything Aziraphale had ever known. All the same, he could think of a few other points of contact for them to investigate that might even be nicer, and yet there didn’t seem to be any movement on Crowley’s part to try them out.

To that end, Aziraphale had a plan. He had bathed, and boosted himself with a glass of sherry and a spot of Beethoven whilst he luxuriated in sandalwood-scented bubbles. Now he put his hands upon his hips and reviewed his choices in the wardrobe door’s mirror. The undershirts he already owned were essentially the same thing as t-shirts, and his drawers were really just long shorts. It would do, surely.

“Crowley,” he called, and waited. 

There was the sound of footsteps upon the stairs, and the bedroom door was pushed cautiously open. Crowley’s face peered through. 

“Um?” he said. “Thought you were getting changed?”

“I fancied a sleep,” said Aziraphale bravely. “I thought you might join me, if you wanted.”

Crowley glanced towards the window. “It’s three in the afternoon.”

“Ah, well, as for that, _‘What hath night to do with sleep?’” _

“...quite a lot, usually?”

“John Milton, Crowley darling. It’s a quote. You needn’t feel obliged, I can sleep on my own.” 

Aziraphale could hear the irritation creeping into his tone, but it was far from comfortable to conduct a conversation this delicate in such skimpy apparel.

At once, Crowley was in the room and closing the door behind him. He clicked his fingers and was instantly attired in a loose black silk suit considerably more dapper than Aziraphale’s crumpled linen.

“Oh,” said Aziraphale in shock. “Should I… you look very...”

Crowley looked down at himself. 

“Shit. No, sorry,” he said, and clicked his fingers once more. The silk outfit became a t-shirt and shorts that more closely resembled what he had worn in at his flat London, and Aziraphale put his head on one side in befuddlement.

“Why..?” he began to ask, and Crowley nodded vigorously.

“Uh, for when I can’t sleep?” he said, cutting Aziraphale off. “Yeah, ridiculous, really, why would it be hard to sleep. Absolutely. Forget it happened.”

He dived for the bed like a hunted animal, slinking under the covers until all that could be seen of him was a beaky nose, a fan of glorious hair, and dark sunglasses.

With a sigh, Aziraphale joined him from the other side of the bed, increasingly unsure of how good a plan this really was. If the thing was to be done, it ought to be done properly, however, so he took a little time to arrange himself comfortably, plumping his pillows and arranging the covers about his shoulders. The room was still scented with the roses he had miracled when they arrived, and a light, cool breeze wafted from the window, open just a crack. It wasn’t night, but the faint sounds from the garden were quiet and soothing. He turned to gaze across at Crowley watching from the pillow beside him.

“Dearest,” he said, and gestured towards his eyes.

Crowley swallowed, his throat moving as if the action pained him. “Hngh,” he mumbled. “Yeah. Of course.” 

He rolled over to set his sunglasses on the nightstand at his side of the bed, then back, eyes already shut. 

“Crowley, look at me,” said Aziraphale hopefully. He did like Crowley’s eyes, and so rarely got to see them when they were both sober.

Crowley frowned, eyes still closed. “Thought we were going to sleep.” 

He sounded petulant, and Aziraphale decided there was no sense in pushing the matter. He reached out to brush the long stray strands of copper hair back from Crowley’s brow, and stroked his cheek. 

“All right,” he said, laying his head on his pillow, and his hand on the mattress between them. “I love you, Crowley. Sleep well.”

Aziraphale did not close his eyes, but lowered his lids enough that he hoped it would appear that he had. A few moments later the deception was rewarded, as Crowley opened first one eye and then the other. Two golden lights regarded him with such tenderness it pierced his soul, and it was the hardest thing in the world not to respond. Crowley’s pupils were a stroke of ink across gilded vellum, a longsword of truth laid upon a field of gold, quite the loveliest thing imaginable, and Aziraphale yearned to tell him so.

It would not do to betray such trust, however, so instead he closed his eyes in earnest and settled down to sleep, not startling even when Crowley’s hand gently covered his own, and the rush of love flowed through him.

Over the preceding 6,000 years Aziraphale had read a great number of books across a wide variety of genres, and he knew exactly the inevitable result of falling asleep in the same bed as one’s beloved. Specifically, he knew it was all but guaranteed that upon waking both inhabitants of the bed should find themselves quite unexpectedly, but most tightly and tenderly, wrapped in one another’s embrace. Quite often it was the case that lovers would wake only inches from a kiss, and the merest gesture would be enough to conclude it.

It would solve a lot of issues, he thought, and could not help but feel hopeful as he drifted off.

\--

It was warm when Aziraphale awoke.

That was fine; to be warm was very pleasant, and yet one could have too much of a good thing, which did rather seem to be the case now. He really was very warm indeed, much too warm, and as he sat up in bed, bleary-eyed and yawning, he wondered why the room was flickering with red and orange light.

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, suddenly wide awake. “Crowley! Crowley, get up, the house is on fire!”

The instruction was accompanied by a thump to his companion’s shoulder, as Aziraphale threw back the covers, scrambled out of bed, and was struck by his second horrible realisation in as many seconds. 

Namely: that with sufficient concentration, both he and Crowley were fireproof enough to escape without significant damage, but the same was not true of his books. He could work miracles, but it was beyond Aziraphale’s power to perfectly restore an entire library. He remembered that well enough from Alexandria.

“The books!” he wailed, and turned from opening the window to run into the house, down the burning staircase towards the Snug. 

In the course of many centuries Aziraphale’s earthly vessel had come into contact with fire more times than he would have liked, which was to say ever at all. It was very painful stuff, he knew, and could easily do enough damage to discorporate one, but the books, the books would be nothing but ash if he did not hurry, so hurry he did. The cottage’s ancient stairs followed a dog-leg, the steps themselves narrow and warped; it was hardly surprising when he stumbled and fell against a wall to catch himself.

Pain lanced through him as the fire licked against his skin. It was hot, and molten, and it hurt like the dickens, more grievous than anything he could remember. With sudden shock he became aware there might be a degree of suffering that could detach one’s mind entirely, so acute it might simply drop him directly into madness. It stole the breath he fortunately did not need, it clawed at him, it wrenched through his body like a thousand dragging knives, and he crumpled like a cut puppet to tumble down the last few steps to the floor. Any bruises barely registered in comparison to the spasms of agony wherever the flames touched him.

He could not stand, so on knees and elbows, Aziraphale crawled along the burning corridor, finding his direction through the inferno by memory, gritting his teeth and struggling forwards. The door to the Snug was not far, he needed only to reach out and push it. Already he could no longer imagine what he would do once inside, and only knew he must get there, his vision tunnelling against the pain. With a final burst of effort he staggered upright, barging the door with a shoulder and falling into the room.

Fire consumed the shelves, red and livid along every spine, dancing across the furniture, every book differently precious and all impossible to choose between. In the centre of the space an empty rug covered the stone flags, and upon it Aziraphale collapsed helpless, moaning aloud, unable to move any further, overwhelmed by sheer agony. It was the sort of torture that roared in one’s ears and roiled in the stomach. Aziraphale had never vomited in his life, but he supposed there might be a first time for everything.

Then, as he sprawled there, it faded. Within no more than a few seconds the pain had ebbed away so entirely that it left his head spinning, and for a moment he wondered if this was how it felt to dream.

Aziraphale opened his eyes, sat up in a room still violently aflame, and lifted his hands to his face. They were unblemished, clean and soft as ever. His nightwear was not even singed. He looked at the burning shelves and noticed for the first time that they burned without smoke, and that the books showed no sign of damage whatsoever.

Beyond the door he could hear Crowley crashing around the cottage, screaming, hysterical with terror. 

“Aziraphale! Don’t - you can’t do this to me, not again! Where the fuck are you, Aziraphale?” Crowley burst into the room and saw him. “Aziraphale!”

“It’s all right,” Aziraphale tried to say, as Crowley barrelled into him, knocking him back to the floor and wrapping long limbs around him like a frenzied octopus. “I’m all right, dearest, I’m not hurt.”

“It’s Hellfire, you idiot, you’ll die, don’t touch it, don’t move!” pleaded Crowley, grabbing Aziraphale’s face with shaking hands, his eyes entirely yellow from lid to lid, tears streaming down his face. In the orange light he should perhaps have looked especially demonic, but he only looked like Crowley, frightened, desperate, and Aziraphale loved him.

“Crowley!” said Aziraphale, as gently as he could, laying his own hands over Crowley’s. “Look at me, darling, see? I’m fine, though I confess I don’t quite know how. It’s all right.”

Feverishly, Crowley checked him over. “Even just a spark,” he muttered, patting Aziraphale’s hair and arms and face in a frenzy.

“Is it definitely Hellfire?” asked Aziraphale, and Crowley glared up at him, beginning to recover himself at last. He threw his arms out wide towards the room, still wreathed in flame.

“Look at it! Everything’s on fire, and nothing’s burning up. Including you, apparently.”

“I know,” said Aziraphale in wonder. “Is that how it works?”

Crowley blinked at him, his face working through a turmoil of emotions that certainly included incredulity. “Yeah, as it happens. Can’t torture a soul for centuries if you burn it all up in ten minutes. Hellfire hurts, but it doesn’t destroy you. Unless you’re...”

“An Angel,” said Aziraphale. Despite the heat, he felt suddenly cold all over.

“Um,” said Crowley eloquently. 

“Could you, do you think, get rid of it?” asked Aziraphale, controlling his voice with some effort. “It’s disconcerting. I can’t say I like it very much.”

Wordlessly, Crowley reached out his arms, palms flat and downturned, and lowered them to the floor. As he did, the fire surged upwards one last time, crackling and roaring as if in a final gasp of rage, then dropped lower, and lower, until it smouldered out and was gone. It looked as though it took quite an effort, and more so perhaps than Crowley expected. However, it worked, and soon the room was lit only by the moon and stars, shadowy and cool.

The rug was thin, and the stone under Aziraphale’s bared knees was not comfortable, but he didn’t feel quite up to standing just yet. He reached into the ether and summoned the wings from his back with a fervently whispered prayer. There was a faint whooshing sound, and it certainly felt as if they still appeared, but he couldn’t summon the nerve to look. 

“Crowley?” he asked.

Crowley smiled, relief clear on his face. He reached over Aziraphale’s shoulder to run a hand along the coverts of one wing softly. “Still there. Still white. Pure as the driven snow, Angel.”

Aziraphale sighed at the touch. It was physical and real, balm to his fears in every way. He curved his wings forward into view, stretching out the primaries wistfully in the dim light. They were in need of grooming, he noted with faint shame, and resolved to do that as soon as he could. It was always nice to have them out, but not the sort of thing one should get too used to doing. He tucked them back away and sighed.

“All the same. It appears I’m not quite as… celestial as I once was,” he said. It sounded absurd as he said it out loud. He didn’t feel any different, except perhaps confused, and increasingly chilly.

Crowley shrugged. “Makes two of us,” he said, the smile becoming distinctly more wicked, before it dropped from his face entirely, and he reached to take Aziraphale’s shoulders in his hands, holding him at arm’s length. They were both still kneeling on the rug, in their night things, in the dark room, surrounded by the unharmed books. “Hey. Don’t scare me like that again.”

“I hardly meant to!”

“You ran into a burning building! Only idiots do that!” snapped Crowley, and Aziraphale looked down at his lap, squirming in shame. “They’re just books, Aziraphale. None of them are irreplaceable. Not like you.”

“I’m sorry,” said Aziraphale, his heart fluttering. “I suppose I wasn’t thinking straight.”

“Welcome to my world,” muttered Crowley, releasing him, a statement which Aziraphale didn’t really understand, but under the circumstances wasn’t about to question.

Awkwardly, stiffly, Aziraphale got to his feet. He couldn’t help feeling the time for sleeping was probably past for now. He still wanted to check over the shelves to be absolutely certain there was no damage, but it could wait.

“Cocoa?” he offered.

“Cocoa,” scoffed Crowley, and headed to the kitchen, where he poured them both a large whiskey.

\--

They sat and talked across the table until sunrise. At some point Aziraphale excused himself and retired upstairs to dress, and when he returned Crowley was also in his more usual attire, sunglasses included, refilling their glasses sloppily enough to drench half the table. 

“It’s Hastur,” he ranted. “Vindictive bastard, I know it’s him, he’d set fire to a garden shed if you told him someone lived there. No imagination.”

"Might he still be around? Lurking?" asked Aziraphale anxiously. 

Crowley shook his head. "Probably scarpered as soon as it went out. I can't shens, I mean sense, him. No tingly demonic presences here. ‘Cept, you know. Me."

“Hellfire, though,” said Aziraphale, tipping back his whiskey appreciatively. “Doesn’t hurt demons, you said. So he - he must have known you’d surf, you’d suffife. You’d be all right.”

“Yeah,” said Crowley, soberly, or as soberly as anyone could after two thirds of a bottle of Talisker. “This was for you, Angel. Be planning something else to take me out.” 

“You know, they might be working together.” The pair of them pondered that grim thought in silence.

“You really sure you touched it, the fire?” asked Crowley, frowning slightly. 

“Very sure. It jolly well hurt, I can tell you, like a, like a really hurty thing. Very much so. But no harm done,” Aziraphale reassured him. He leaned over, grasping Crowley’s hand on only the second attempt. 

“Huh,” said Crowley, drawing out the sound. He looked at their joined hands as if confused for a moment, and his frown swiftly became a wide, soppy smile. “Not sure I’m wanna take a bath in Holy Water just yet, but s’interstin. Interesting.” 

“Isn’t it,” agreed Aziraphale. A lot of things were interesting just at the moment, but they could wait until tomorrow. He reached to refill their empty glasses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was beta'd by the wonderful [Hoomhum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoomhum/pseuds/hoomhum) and the magnificent [beltainefaerie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beltainefaerie/pseuds/beltainefaerie) and I owe them my life!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Demonic Agents of the Eternal Evil tried to burn down our house last night,” said Crowley nonchalantly. “Speaking of.” He clicked his fingers and a merry little blaze sprang up in the fireplace grate._
> 
> _“Gosh, I can never get it going,” said Newton admiringly. “Wait, what?”_

\---

“Angel!”

It was a loud voice, and usually a welcome one, but on this occasion it was only loud.

“Ow,” mumbled Aziraphale, wondering why his pillow was hard and damp. He lifted his head and blinked to find himself in the kitchen still. It appeared he had passed out on the table in a puddle of his own drool.

“Here you go,” said the voice again, Crowley’s voice, mercifully softer this time, pushed a mug of cocoa into Aziraphale’s field of view. He winced as a large slug of rum was added to it. “Drink that and sober up. Or the other way around, if you like.”

Crowley was up and about looking as fresh as a uniquely gothic daisy, and Aziraphale could not quite fight down a wash of shame at the state in which he found himself. What with the Hellfire, and the revelation of his new immunity and potential reduction in celestial grace, it had been a pretty big night, however. He could probably be excused. 

He groaned, stretched, and purged his system of the remaining toxins in his bloodstream, glad to find the miracle still well within his ability. Most of the booze was too far through his liver to be returned to the bottle, but at least it wasn’t poisoning his poor earthly vessel any more. He had left it far later than he liked to, and felt a bit weak, not to mention distressingly as if he might need to use a bathroom at some point. 

Aziraphale re-tied the bow tie that lay loose at his neck, and took another sip of his drink, which was still too hot for comfort. It looked well into daytime, judging by the light, and outside the window rain was drizzling, a soft grey sort of weather, like a damp blanket across the sky. He might go and check the books, he thought, just in case, and have a quiet day at home. Some gentle Bach, perhaps the Goldberg variations. A bubble bath. Cake.

“Ready?” asked Crowley, sauntering back into the room, the keys to the Bentley swinging on one long finger. “Time for our Tuesday Tea Party.” He emphasised each word with gleefully camp sarcasm.

“Oh, no,” Aziraphale protested feebly. “Really?”

Crowley leaned over, his grin more demonic than usual. “We could just not go. I found an Antiques shop in the next village along the other day, you might like it. They had books.”

That sounded almost as appealing as a day in his snug. It had been a good few weeks since Aziraphale had been shopping properly, and a nice Antiques shop would be lovely. He knew it was only fair that they let their friends know that extremely dangerous inhuman forces had begun to make moves once more, but Crowley’s suggestion was very tempting. Naturally enough.

Aziraphale scowled, and permitted himself a small “fuck,” under his breath. It was worth it, for the look of shocked admiration on Crowley’s face. 

“Come along, dear heart,” he said, and drained his cocoa, miraculously now at the perfect temperature. The rum made an excellent addition, and trust Crowley to know such a thing. “It wouldn’t do to be late.”

\--

Anathema greeted them warmly, and even Newton seemed reasonably pleased to see them, or at least less afraid. 

For a change they were ushered into Jasmine Cottage’s sitting room. It was smaller than the kitchen, and decorated with an equal proliferation of esoteric witchy trinkets which made it feel smaller still. It did at least have the benefit of not including an enormous table, furnished instead with a pair of loveseats that faced one another across a small coffee table. Anathema and Newton sat together upon one, so it seemed only polite that Aziraphale and Crowley should share the other. 

Aziraphale sat down, and continued to sit down for a rather greater distance than he had anticipated. The loveseats were very old, and little remained within their cushions beyond the ghosts of old springs and the smallest puff of stuffing. He wondered how easy it would be to get back up.

Crowley watched him sinking and silently elected to sit on the arm instead. 

“So how’s it going?” asked Anathema, cuddled around her cup of tea. The weather had long since turned and the room was not a warm one.

“Demonic Agents of the Eternal Evil tried to burn down our house last night,” said Crowley nonchalantly. “Speaking of.” He clicked his fingers and a merry little blaze sprang up in the fireplace grate.

“Gosh, I can never get it going,” said Newton admiringly. “Wait, what?”

Aziraphale spoke quickly, before anyone could start to panic. “Everything’s fine, Crowley dealt with it. And it wasn’t real fire, it was Hellfire. Did you know Hellfire doesn’t actually do any harm? It just hurts like the devil. Appropriately, I suppose.”

“Hell tried to burn down your house?” asked Anathema in slow disbelief. 

“Probably just trying to kill him,” Crowley said, gesturing towards Aziraphale. “Burning the house down would’ve been more of an added bonus.”

“Didn’t work though, did it,” Aziraphale murmured into his tea. He still wasn’t quite sure how he felt about that, or rather, how little it bothered him, given that he still had white wings and miraculous powers. It wasn’t as though he was on Heaven’s side, any more.

Anathema looked stunned. “It came true. A burning room, and both of you unharmed. I saw it, and it came true.”

“It might be coincidence,” said Newton tentatively.

“It’s not,” said Crowley, in a tone that brooked no argument.

Anathema took a deep breath, shaking her head. “Remember the postman, Newt? I’m sorry but they’re totally premonitions. This just confirms it.”

“Quite a gift,” said Aziraphale.

“I guess,” agreed Anathema. “So what do we do about Hell trying to kill you?”

There was a silence that drew on, and then on further still. A log on the fire popped loudly. 

And then the front door to the cottage burst open as four shouting children piled in. 

“Hi,” said Adam cheerfully, walking in first, the leader as always. Dog made a bee-line for Crowley. “They wanted to come too. Any biscuits?”

The Them filled the small room effortlessly with instant chaos. They spread like a spilled jug, tracking mud across the ratty carpet, dumping coats and scarves onto windowsills and tables, pushing aside little soapstone buddhas and knocking over tied bundles of sage.

“Old people like it when children visit them, my Mum said,” said Brian, looking far happier than when they’d last met. “That’s why we have to go to my Nan’s every Sunday.” 

“Do you still have those carob chocolates?” Wensleydale asked Anathema. He sat cross-legged beside Adam and Brian, the three of them largely blocking the fire. “I looked it up and actually carob has lots of calcium, so it’s probably very good for your teeth, which makes it a Healthy Choice.”

It was unnerving how the child managed to audibly pronounce capital letters. Yet more unnerving was the way Pepper alone had remained in the doorway, like a guardian with her arms folded, glaring at each of the adults in turn with narrowed eyes.

“What exactly are you doing?” Crowley asked testily, when her gaze reached him. 

“I’m watching. So none of you start grooming us,” she replied with satisfaction.

From the reaction in the room Aziraphale had a feeling she did not mean hairdressing. 

“All right!” said Anathema loudly. “Here we all are, huh? So um, I guess we should talk about...”

“The wedding?” suggested Aziraphale, casting about for a subject that would be safe. Anathema looked grateful. 

“Right, ok, that’s a good point,” she agreed, and looked over to where Adam was rubbing Dog’s tummy, having retrieved him from Crowley. The ex-hellbeast’s back leg was kicking deliriously with joy. “Adam, I wanted to ask you something. Do you think you’d like to be our Ring Bearer?” 

“Is that like Frodo?” asked Wensleydale, who was contenting himself with a biscuit in lieu of any carob. “He’s in the Lord of the Rings. He has to go inside a volcano and throw in a magic ring, but actually, getting that close to the lava would make you die.”

“Uh, no?” said Anathema. “Like, you wear a suit and you hold out the wedding rings on a little pillow ready for the part of the wedding where we put them on.”

“Sure, why not.” Adam looked disappointed to find that volcanoes would not, after all, be involved, as did the rest of the assembled Them.

Wensleydale perked up. “Are you going to have bridesmaids?”

Anathema shook her head. “From what I saw, there’s supposed to be one, but honestly I don’t know how that’s possible. Unless you want to, Pepper?” 

“Urgh,” said Pepper eloquently. “Catch me dead as a bridesmaid. Patriarchal nonsense.”

“That’s what I thought,” smiled Anathema. 

“I think it would be quite nice to be a bridesmaid,” Wensleydale said, wistfully. “They wear pretty dresses and they get to help the bride.” 

Crowley, who so far had done little except look bored, leaned in. “You’d make a fantastic bridesmaid. Ana’s missing a trick if she doesn’t ask you.”

“Really?” asked Wensleydale, eyes wide.

“Oh, well, that must be it, then,” said Newton, clearly very pleased to have the problem solved. “Ana?”

Anathema’s mouth hung open and it was a moment before she nodded, slowly at first but with increasing enthusiasm. 

“That’s right, you’d be fantastic,” she said, smiling again, even wider this time. “It’s perfect. Do you want to?”

“I’ve got loads of dresses you can have,” offered Pepper, her interest apparently piqued enough to relax her vigilance. “My gran sends me one every birthday but I never wear them.”

Wensleydale had put his head on one side, happiness fading. “Actually, I don’t think my Father will say yes.”

“Is that so,” replied Crowley casually. “How about I walk you home after this and we’ll see.”

Aziraphale chuckled to himself. He would hate to have it pointed out, but the evidence suggested that Crowley was rather fond of children, and it was a most endearing trait. They were a little too loud and dirty for Aziraphale’s preference, but these children seemed bearable enough. It was really no hardship to be around them at all.

\--

As promised, Crowley walked Wensleydale home, and so Aziraphale volunteered to walk with Adam. The stars were out, and the sky clear, the moon’s light throwing long, bumpy silhouettes before them down the track that led to Hogback Lane.

“It’s very good to see you so well, Adam,” said Aziraphale, hands clasped behind his back as they walked companionably. “I hope I’m right, and that you haven’t had any repercussions from the, you know. The Ineffable Incident.” He was still rather proud of that name.

“Not really,” said Adam, kicking at pebbles. They were passing an orchard, the dark trees throwing deeper gloom beneath them in the gathering night. Dog yapped expectantly at the tall hedge, and a hole that had not previously been there shivered open amongst the leaves.

“Oh, I say,” said Aziraphale, as Dog bounded through, his lead mysteriously detached.

“I’d better go and get him,” Adam announced, grinning.

It was not a large hole, although it was the perfect size for an 11-year-old and a small dog. Aziraphale bent to peer through it, and could only conclude that he had no hope at all of following them. 

“Adam!” he called helplessly. His voice sounded uncomfortably loud in the quiet of the evening. “Adam, leave the apples alone!”

Adam’s voice came from behind a tree. “Sure you don’t want one? They’re really good.”

“It’s stealing!” said Aziraphale. 

There was a brief silence in the sound of rustling foliage, and a moment or so later Adam reappeared. He did not seem to have an apple in hand anywhere, although the knees of his school trousers were marked, as if he might have climbed half-way up a tree. Behind him and Dog the hedge closed up until it looked exactly as it had before they approached. 

“Yeah. Sorry,” said Adam, looking shamefaced.

Aziraphale sighed. “That’s quite all right,” he said, as jovially as he could. “Silly old Dog, running off like that, eh? Does that… does that sort of thing happen often?”

They began to walk again, and Adam looked over at him speculatively. “I don’t know. I mean, the school canteen never runs out of chocolate pudding until I’ve had some. And I never have to run for the bus. That’s not normal, is it?”

“I don’t believe so,” Aziraphale concurred. “It is something you use often?”

Adam shook his head until his curls swung. “I try not to use it at all. Anathema told me about the Butterfly Effect and I don’t want to go starting any tornadoes in Antarctica.”

“No indeed,” said Aziraphale, much relieved. “Think of the polar bears!”

Adam shot him a pitying look. “You don’t get polar bears in the Antarctic. You mean penguins.”

\--

Crowley was already waiting in the porch of Jasmine Cottage when Aziraphale returned, a long slice of shadow outlined against the light of the doorway where the Pulsifers stood. 

“Angel. Good. Time to go,” he said, turning at once from whatever Newton was in the middle of saying to him.

“I suppose it is,” said Aziraphale, reaching to clasp Anathema’s hand. “I’m so sorry we didn’t get to speak more privately, my dear. I hope you won’t worry about us. I think if you haven’t foreseen anything too terrible, we should all be safe enough.”

Anathema nodded. “I think so, too. I’m really getting the hang of the visions now, they’re not so bad. I can usually tell when they’re going to come on, actually, and uh… ooh. Ohh, wait. Here we go.” 

Her speech tailed off, and her gaze went vacant, as if she were suddenly looking right through them both. Newton waved a hand cautiously in front of her face. 

“Helloo? Is it happening now?” he asked anxiously, and turned to them both. “I think it’s happening now. Hold on, it doesn’t usually last more than a minute.”

“Gosh,” said Aziraphale, rather fascinated. Anathema’s lips were just slightly parted, a beatific expression on her face. “Do you know, this is exactly as Cassandra of Troy used to get them!”

Abruptly, Anathema blinked back to awareness and took half a step backwards. She stared at Crowley and Aziraphale, open mouthed, and for a moment all colour drained from her face, only to be replaced with a blush that turned her scarlet right up to her ears.

“That doesn’t look good,” murmured Crowley.

“Are you all right?” asked Newton anxiously, holding her about her shoulders. “Ana?”

“Wow,” she said. She had covered her face with her hands, shaking her head. “That was. That was vivid. Okay. Where were we. You were leaving, right? Great! Holy shit. Goodbye, guys.”

“What did you see?” asked Crowley, wedging his foot in the door. 

“You know what? Nothing,” she said determinedly, her face still covered. “Everything’s great, you’re great, it’s all… great.”

“If you’re sure?” asked Aziraphale doubtfully, watching as Newton ushered his wife back into the cottage protectively. “Well… see you next week, then?”

Anathema spun like a top, whirling back to face them, and flinching as she met Aziraphale’s eyes in a manner most unnerving. “No! Not next week, next week is very busy, Newton, we’re busy, right? Uh, so the week after, sure. But not next week. Nope! Really not. Goodbye!” 

With remarkable speed and precision, she stomped on Crowley’s foot, and as he leapt back, yelping, the door shut in their faces.

A second later the letterbox flapped, and Anathema’s voice called through it. “Sorry! Week after next, right?”

“Bloody cheek,” snarled Crowley, hopping on one foot. He miracled it better and stomped back to where the Bentley waited, Aziraphale following. 

“What do you think she saw?” asked Aziraphale, as the Bentley swung back along the lanes at speeds that would once have terrified him. For good or ill, he was beginning to get accustomed to Crowley’s driving.

“Damned if I know. Well, I mean. More damned, whatever.”

Aziraphale hummed his agreement, and looked out of the window at the hedgerows rushing by. They would surely find out, soon enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies that this chapter is later than I meant - life has TRULY been kicking my arse of late. But here it is!
> 
> Thanks again are due to the wonderful [Hoomhum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoomhum/pseuds/hoomhum) and the magnificent [beltainefaerie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beltainefaerie/pseuds/beltainefaerie) for beta-ing! :)


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You said I went too fast for you,” said Crowley softly, his head dropped and tilted to one side to catch Aziraphale’s gaze. He was so close that the yellow of his eyes was clear even through the darkened glass of his spectacles. “That’s what you said, and I promised myself after that, I’d never push you again. Never. I never have.”_

\---

Aziraphale had not forgotten Crowley’s mention of a little Antiques shop in a village down the road. The following day they arrived on the dot of opening hours to peruse its three elegantly dilapidated floors of dusty delight.

It was run by a choleric gentleman whose seething, barely-concealed rage at their presence warmed Aziraphale’s heart, and surely boded well for the contents of his shop. The sign outside had advertised rare first editions, and he examined the stuffed shelves beside the till eagerly. There were a few gems, most notably a first edition of E. M. Forster's "Where Angels Fear to Tread" in a display case that would sit beautifully in Aziraphale’s collection. 

“Tosspot,” a low voice sneered, and Aziraphale looked up to see the proprietor glaring at something. He followed the man’s gaze to find Crowley in a far corner, flicking through a stack of tatty vinyl recording discs with a predator’s focus.

“Excuse me?” said Aziraphale, certain he must have misheard.

The old man was taken aback for only a moment before doubling down. He jerked his head toward Crowley. “Tosspot, I said. Girl’s hair. Wearing sunglasses indoors in October.”

“Eye surgery, thanks,” called Crowley carelessly. As he examined them, he wasn’t taking any of the discs out, but would pause every so often to draw a fingertip slowly across the sleeves of things that looked rare. Aziraphale took a moment to realise that Crowley was almost certainly scratching them.

“Oh, eye surgery, is it,” jeered the old man. “I know the sort. I had one of your lot in the other day, done something to turn his eyes purple he had, load of nonsense. Bloody pansies.”

“Now, that will do,” said Aziraphale, incensed. It was hardly as if he had never heard the word before; indeed, it had been applied to him often, but for this man to spit it at Crowley with such bile could not be borne. “Crowley, my darling, we are leaving this shabby little establishment and we will not be returning. And, sir, it may interest you to know that your first editions are all, every one of them, cheap fakes. Good day.”

He slammed the door behind him hard enough for the bell to still be jangling as they rounded the corner of the street. 

“Got you all riled up, didn’t he,” Crowley grinned.

“Ghastly man,” spat Aziraphale. “I’m glad you scratched his records.” 

“Least I could do. I’m sorry he didn’t have any good books.”

“He did,” said Aziraphale loftily. “Several very nice ones. He doesn’t any more, however.” 

Crowley stopped in his tracks. “What?” he asked, dumbfounded.

Aziraphale turned to him and shrugged. “It’s just possible that they’ve been miraculously transported somewhere much more likely to appreciate them, and replaced with unremarkable Folio editions.”

“You stole!” said Crowley, swiftly moving well past dumbfounded and into utter bamboozlement. “I didn’t even tell you to, you stole from him!”

“Please,” said Aziraphale, adjusting his bow-tie with a small smile. “I merely replaced.” 

“Fucking Heaven,” said Crowley. He circled around to block Azriaphale’s path, standing very close and regarding him intently. “You stole. I can’t believe it.”

He really was very close indeed, close enough that Aziraphale had to look up slightly to meet his gaze. Close enough to breathe that scent of earth and smoke that clung to the bedsheets where Crowley slept.

It would be the simplest thing in the world, though Aziraphale suddenly, to fling his arms about the demon’s neck and kiss him. His expression seemed as if he might even welcome it.

“Crowley...” said Aziraphale softly.

“Sorry,” said Crowley, stepping back, shaking his head. “Just, bit of a surprise. That’s all.” 

\--

In the car, on the way home, they did not speak. Nor when they arrived back at the cottage, and Aziraphale took himself and a mug of cocoa to the snug, where he had books to check up on, after all. 

It was much more difficult than usual to concentrate and Aziraphale could feel himself becoming more frustrated by the moment. After filing the new additions he had decided upon a whim to recategorise his Philosophy section into Theological and General, and was finding far too many works that fell between the two stools, which meant re-reading them to choose the correct section, which meant that by the following morning, he had several dozen piles on the floor around him and was in his chair by the window, frowning over Descartes’ _“Regulae ad Directionem Ingenii”_, and no closer to resolving a single volume.

It didn’t matter if Crowley didn’t want to kiss him, really. Aziraphale was not quite such a fool not to know that some humans simply did not do that sort of thing, had no urge to do so, and that was perfectly natural. It seemed reasonable that celestial or demonic beings might be the same. He would never want anything Crowley did not, and the companionship and love they shared was already wonderful. If Aziraphale had thoughts that went a little further, then he could manage them himself, for hadn’t he already done so for decades already? Centuries, truth be known. It was only the not knowing that bothered him. 

Or indeed, not even that, because it did very much seem as though Crowley did want to kiss him. He just wouldn’t do it. And Aziraphale had no idea why.

On the second day, Crowley wandered in, and there was a faint, miraculous shift in the air of the room. Aziraphale glanced up to see a glamorous red chaise longue at the side of his desk that was very definitely not of his doing. With a scowl, he altered the covers to a nicely faded tartan exactly as Crowley sat down, looking somewhat tense, at the nearer end.

“You all right?” asked Crowley.

“I’m perfectly fine,” replied Aziraphale, returning to his book. “Why wouldn’t I be.”

“Dunno.” Crowley stretched out along the chaise with too studied nonchalance. “You’ve been in here two days. Wondered, that’s all.”

“I’m reading,” said Aziraphale, unsure even himself why he was being so chilly.

“I can see that,” muttered Crowley.

“Did you want me for anything?”

Crowley made a small, noncommittal noise, crossed his ankles and put a long, elegant arm behind his head. It was probably not intended to be a painfully erotic gesture but in Aziraphale’s current state it felt horribly pointed. He huffed a sigh and tried to go back to reading.

“You didn’t like the Antique shop, then,” said Crowley.

“I didn’t like the owner.” Aziraphale turned a page of which he had not taken in a single word.

“Bit of a dickhead,” agreed Crowley. “Sounded like Gabriel had been in.”

“Indeed so.”

Crowley grunted. He rolled over on the chaise to peer over his sunglasses at Aziraphale, the movement unbearably fluid.

“You sure you’re alright?”

Aziraphale stared at him, thoroughly irked. He closed the book, not even bothering with a bookmark, and set his hands upon his knees. Apparently he was required to do everything himself these days.

“Crowley,” he began. “I love you.”

“Good?” said Crowley cautiously.

“Yes, but I don’t think I’ve explained it very well. What I feel for you, is...” Aziraphale reached to find the words that would do his heart justice, now wishing he had practiced this a little beforehand. “You are everything I want, every part of you. That’s the sort of love I mean. I love you, Crowley. Very, very much.”

Crowley nodded, his expression soft and just a little sad. “I love you too.”

“Oh, goodness, is that all?” spluttered Aziraphale, jumping to his feet with half a mind to storm out of the room.

“Aziraphale, wait! What do you want from me?” 

Aziraphale rounded on him, furious. “I want, oh, I don’t know, would a kiss really be so awful?” 

“You want me to kiss you?” 

“Never mind,” said Aziraphale, hurt beyond measure and feeling more wretched than he could ever remember. Why had he even begun this? “It doesn’t matter.”

“Oh, it matters,” said Crowley, rising to his feet. 

“No, my dearest, I’m sorry. You don’t have to want what I want. I understand.” Aziraphale covered his face with his hands, ashamed. He had spoiled everything, he could just tell. Greedy, foolish Angel. 

Very gently, he felt Crowley’s long, cool fingers wrap around his wrists, pulling his hands from his face.

“You said I went too fast for you,” said Crowley softly, his head dropped and tilted to one side to catch Aziraphale’s gaze. He was so close that the yellow of his eyes was clear even through the darkened glass of his spectacles. “That’s what you said, and I promised myself after that, I’d never push you again. Never. I never have.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, realising. “You mean... you do want to kiss me? You were waiting for me?”

Crowley pulled a series of awkward faces and shrugged in a manner that clearly indicated this was indeed the case.

“Whyever didn’t you say so?”

“Because I didn’t want to go too bloody fast!” retorted Crowley. “And what if that’s not… what if you don’t even like me… like that. I can understand that, I know what I am, even if I can sense a bit of the love now but I never, I never wanted to ask for things that would make you feel bad, or...”

As Crowley continued to bluster, Aziraphale stopped listening, struck instead by thoughts of his own. Ever since they had met, Crowley had done the difficult bits for him, had turned up in the nick of time, rescued him, watched out for him. For centuries upon centuries. And here was Aziraphale, after a single measly picnic, expecting Crowley to pick up the task once more. It simply wasn’t good enough. 

Crowley was still talking. 

“Do shut up,” said Aziraphale, and kissed him. 

It wasn’t his most graceful attempt at the act, but that didn’t really matter. 

Like the breaking of a spell, Crowley’s hand reached up to cup Aziraphale’s jaw, and he was kissing Aziraphale back at once with such love and hunger in his touch that it was like a burning brand against the skin. Unlike the Hellfire, it didn’t hurt at all. There was a soft noise and a faint breeze, and opening his eyes just a crack Aziraphale saw black feathers framing them both, and smiled into their kiss. 

On the occasions he had tried it, Aziraphale had always liked kissing. It was such a simple act and yet so wonderfully intimate. Kissing Crowley was something altogether new again, although truth be told Aziraphale was coming to expect that, after the experience of merely holding hands. It turned out Crowley was really very good at kissing, rather extraordinarily so. There was definitely something unexpected and delightful going on with his tongue that left Aziraphale quite forgetting to breathe. Love fizzed like champagne through his whole body, sparkling over his skin until he felt they must both be glowing with it. 

The chaise longue was so conveniently placed that it didn’t take long for them to move there, Aziraphale stumbling backward to fall against the velvet with his arms full of a languidly handsy demon. The weight of Crowley’s body over his own was delightful, thought Aziraphale, tracing the long lines of snakelike limbs with his hands, digging his fingers into that glorious mane of hair to properly position Crowley’s mouth at the exact angle he wanted it for kissing, and sniggering just a little at the hungry sounds Crowley made when his hair was tugged. 

The sunglasses did get in the way, however. Aziraphale was just wondering how to ask about them, when with a growl Crowley tore them off himself and threw them carelessly aside, diving back in at once for more kisses.

“Oh, wait,” said Aziraphale quickly, cupping Crowley’s face in his hands and drinking in the sight.

Crowley blinked down at him. His tousled hair hung about his face in disarray, his mouth had been kissed to a shade Aziraphale remembered from their days at the Dowlings' house, and he was radiantly beautiful. He had pulled his wings back in, Aziraphale noted with a small pang of regret, but to have those beautiful eyes revealed would make up for anything.

Aziraphale reached up to smooth the tiny anxious line forming between Crowley’s eyebrows with his thumb. 

“Gorgeous,” he breathed, kissing him again and pouring all his adoration into it. 

Crowley made a muffled sound of surprise before he allowed himself to be pulled down into Aziraphale’s arms once more. If Crowley could not be convinced of his perfection with mere words, Aziraphale would do it with deeds, he resolved. It would hardly be an arduous task.

Without real urgency Crowley’s hips moved against him, and Aziraphale hummed his approval into the kiss, aware of an answering hardness to his own that matched with his memory of inhabiting Crowley’s earthly vessel in Hell. He had very deliberately refrained from taking even a peek at the time, and could not help but look forward to satisfying this particular curiosity at last. 

Yet for the moment there was no hurry, and just so much to explore, from the taste of Crowley’s skin, the scent of his hair, to the sweetly stuttering noises he made when Aziraphale caught an earlobe gently in his teeth. They had time, after all these long years. 

Crowley was a banquet, and Aziraphale wished to savour every morsel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THEY KISS!! JFC boys finally. :3
> 
> Thanks again are due to [Hoomhum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoomhum/pseuds/hoomhum) for beta-ing this chapter!


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Aziraphale approached as quietly as he could, not to be sneaky, but only because he did not wish to disturb the scene. A shaft of sunshine through the glass gleamed on the gilded edges of Crowley’s chair and the red of his hair, laying a grid of light across the pale floor. Crowley’s expression was rather lovely, and Aziraphale wanted to know what he was saying._
> 
> _“...grow so big, the most delicious tomatoes my Angel has ever tasted,” murmured Crowley to his seeds. “If you don’t, of course, if you fail, I’ll mulch you and feed you to the tiger lilies, and I do mean that. But I know you won’t, you’re going to be the best little tomato plants this universe has ever seen. Understand? I believe in you. Don’t let me down. You really don’t want to let me down.”_

\---

“It’s not like they’re competent,” Crowley pointed out. “Most of them are even worse at the job than we are.”

He was sitting on the kitchen table, long legs wrapped around Aziraphale, pinning him in place at the knees as they kissed once more. It was hard to tell how long they had stayed in the snug. A day or so at least, so far as Aziraphale could guess, until Crowley had mumbled something reluctant about watering his plants. Not that he seemed in any hurry to do so just now. 

“You’re excellent at your job, dearest,” sighed Aziraphale, while feather-light kisses were trailed down his neck. “Your temptations are irresistible, even to Angels.” 

There were teeth in the next kiss, and he giggled. 

“Not Angels,” said Crowley. “Just one. Just you.”

“What’s that terrible smell?” Aziraphale glanced over to the stove at last, where a small pan that had once contained milk was boiling dry. “Oh, drat, my cocoa! I shall have to remake it. Go and see to your garden, you demon. Shoo!” 

Unhurriedly, Crowley released him. Aziraphale pushed him out of the kitchen, and if he did so with his hands upon the wonderfully lean high muscle of Crowley’s arse, really who could blame him?

“Join me?” Crowley threw the request over his shoulder hopefully, and Aziraphale merely rolled his eyes.

\---

He did join Crowley, because of course he did. A fresh cup of cocoa in hand and Aziraphale was practically running across the damp lawn, well aware of how ridiculous it was to already be missing a person whose tongue had been in one’s mouth not a quarter hour previously.

The urgency of being pursued by agents of Heaven and Hell was far harder to bring to mind. The thought that either of them might be in danger seemed abstract, absurd.

The day was bright, if cold, and heat in the greenhouse was welcome in comparison to the chill of late October out-of-doors. In the orangery at the far end, he could see Crowley pressing seeds into one of those trays of tiny little pots he seemed to often use, talking to himself as he did so. The desk’s marble surface was scattered with dirt and gardening equipment that made as much sense to him as his baking utensils must to Crowley. 

On a whim, Aziraphale slipped silently out of his shoes, tucking them under a bench next to where Crowley’s were stowed. The demon often went without in here, padding barefoot across the stone flags, and Aziraphale found them surprisingly warm, as if heated from beneath by a Roman hypocaust. The air was humid, and thick with the scent of earth and growing things, almost every plant green and glossy with health. Now that they lived out in the countryside it was easier to appreciate Crowley’s exceptional skill, since whenever Aziraphale had walked through the village lately there were only brown leaves and bare earth to be seen. How lucky these plants were, to have Crowley care for them so well!

Aziraphale approached as quietly as he could, not to be sneaky, but only because he did not wish to disturb the scene. A shaft of sunshine through the glass gleamed on the gilded edges of Crowley’s chair and the red of his hair, laying a grid of light across the pale floor. Crowley’s expression was rather lovely, and Aziraphale wanted to know what he was saying.

“...grow so big, the most delicious tomatoes my Angel has ever tasted,” murmured Crowley to his seeds. “If you don’t, of course, if you fail, I’ll mulch you and feed you to the tiger lilies, and I do mean that. But I know you won’t, you’re going to be the best little tomato plants this universe has ever seen. Understand? I believe in you. Don’t let me down. You really don’t want to let me down.”

It wasn’t quite what Aziraphale had expected. He cleared his throat quietly, and Crowley whipped about so fast the great flag of his hair swung around into his face and he stood aghast, spitting long strands of it out of his mouth.

“How long have you been standing there?” he demanded.

“Not long, I promise. Are you always so mean to them?” 

“Mean?” repeated Crowley in astonishment. “You should hear what I normally tell… um.” He stopped, and scratched his neck speculatively, leaving a long smear of earth. He had pushed up the sleeves of his open shirt, wiry forearms exposed and the delicate, knobbly bones of his wrist quite hypnotising. “You probably shouldn’t, come to think. Yes, sorry, that was a bit mean. Try harder next time.”

Aziraphale sidled up to the little pots and wondered if Crowley would notice a small blessing. “Did you say they were tomatoes?”

“Come here, I missed you,” said Crowley, ignoring the question to pull him closer with a dirty hand. It was sure to leave a mark on his shirtsleeve but Aziraphale found he didn’t even care, and had no inclination to miracle it away, either. 

“I was only making cocoa,” protested Aziraphale, helplessly charmed.

“Great, now I have to be jealous of cocoa. Well, that’s a lie, I have been for ages.” An arm snaked around Aziraphale’s waist, and Crowley leaned in to nuzzle his neck, the plants apparently forgotten once more.

“Crowley, you silly old thing.” Aziraphale set the offending mug down on a corner of the desk, freeing his hands to stroke along all that beautiful copper hair, and sighed with pleasure. 

“M’not,” murmured Crowley, his lips against Aziraphale’s skin as he spoke, holding him tightly against his long body. “Listen, Angel, now you’re here. There’s something particular I need you for. Something I want you to do for me.”

Aziraphale could feel his knees weakening. Any moment, he was going to have to put his arms about Crowley’s neck just to hold himself upright. “Anything, you should know that.”

Crowley reached back to fumble for something on the desk behind him, and lifted a plastic plant mister into Aziraphale’s view. 

“Good. Bless this for me?”

On instinct, Aziraphale recoiled, the sudden request like a bucket of ice down his back. He stepped away, straightening his waistcoat and shooting his cuffs, calming himself with the little rituals of respectability until he could speak again. 

“Oh, come on,” wheedled Crowley, waggling the spray bottle hopefully. “One drop won’t kill me anyway. Probably.”

“Kill you?” snapped Aziraphale. “You mean dest...”

“Destroy me, yes,” interrupted Crowley. “We’ve been over this. But what if it doesn’t? You’re immune to Hellfire now, after all, and don’t tell me you’re not curious. You want to know as much as I do, and it’ll be useful, won’t it? If they’re coming for us. Which they are.” 

“Hardly immune, it was very painful!”

“But it didn’t destroy you.”

Aziraphale huffed with frustration, unable to argue with that. He had come to the greenhouse for kisses, and felt rather unpleasantly manipulated by the way things were turning out. “You could have just asked.” 

“I did!” protested Crowley, and his face twisted with something that could, charitably, have been considered shame. “I might’ve got a bit carried away doing it. That’s not my fault.” 

It was one of Crowley’s least endearing features to be pathologically unable to accept blame for anything. Aziraphale snatched the plant mister from his hand, exasperated, and frowned at it. The thing was perhaps half full, the bottle clear and the handle green plastic. It didn’t look much like a weapon of utter destruction, and perhaps it wasn’t, at that. 

“I suppose,” he muttered, and recited a blessing from ancient memory as Crowley watched. 

“That’s... all you do?” 

Aziraphale glared at him. “All, indeed.”

“No, what I mean is, yes, that looked very holy. Very holy. Probably complicated too. Impressive.” His arms spread wide, Crowley stood displaying himself like a large black target amidst the greenery, a broad smirk upon his face and just a trace of fear in his eyes. “Well then, Angel. Let us spray.”

“I’m not going to just spray it at you, for goodness’ sake, Crowley! Have you gone quite mad?” 

Furious, Aziraphale spritzed the Holy Water across the desk instead, where it fell on the little pots of earth and the crimson marble, pulling itself into gleaming puddles against the surface that looked almost like blood. Even that felt a little too reckless for his liking.

Crowley simply rolled his eyes, reached out with one finger and, without hesitation, pressed it into the nearest drop. 

For just a split second naked horror crossed his face, but it was gone as quickly, replaced by a slow-dawning wonder. Incredulous, he spread out his hand, and slapped it flat into the water with a grimace and a tiny splishing sound. The droplets sparkled in the sunshine like glitter.

The spray bottle fell from Aziraphale’s grasp and rolled away across the stone. “Crowley!”

“It’s all right. It just prickles a bit. Like leaning on a hairbrush, barely anything.” Crowley lifted his hand in fascination, rubbing his wet fingers and thumb. Large wings unfolded from his back with a soft rushing sound, glossy and well-groomed and black as the void. 

“Well, these haven’t changed,” he said, excitement fading somewhat as he examined them. 

Aziraphale sagged against the desk and ran a finger around the collar of his shirt, feeling the dampness there. The heat of the greenhouse seemed more oppressive than when he had arrived, the air heavy in his lungs. As grand as it might be to know they were both apparently invulnerable to the things that most definitely ought to kill them, he felt quite overwhelmed by the experience.

“Dearest, I think if you’re quite finished with me, I might go back indoors.”

Crowley’s hand shot forward, wet fingers catching him about the wrist, his wings tucked back out of sight at once. “Wait, why?”

“You scared me rather.”

“Didn’t mean to. And you don’t have to be scared now, do you? Neither of us do.” 

“Is that what this means? Are you sure?” Aziraphale rubbed his forehead with his free hand. He tugged off his bow-tie distractedly, dropping it onto the desk beside them, and undid the top button of his shirt. It didn’t make much difference to how uncomfortably warm he was, alas. 

Crowley shrugged, shaking his head as he tugged Aziraphale back towards him. “Well, we’re safer than we were, aren’t we. That’s good.”

“Is it? I don’t understand what’s happening, Crowley!” Aziraphale could hear how plaintive, how petulant he sounded, but he couldn’t help it. “What if it’s because we swapped? What if I’ve got some demon in me now?”

“I dunno, maybe you have.” Crowley’s eyebrows waggled, and his gaze fell upon the small exposed vee of Aziraphale’s throat. “You could always have some more.”

“Oh, you’re incorrigible,” scoffed Aziraphale, still cross. 

“Angel.” Crowley’s voice was suddenly soft, and Aziraphale turned to face him even before he realised what he was doing. “I don’t know what’s happening any more than you do, but for once in my blasted existence, I’m not going to question it. The Great Plan, or whatever, finally seems to be going our way. Isn’t that enough?”

“I worry,” said Aziraphale, without much conviction, and sighed. 

He glared at the door to the greenhouse, thinking of his books in the snug and the cake in the kitchen tins. No-one could rile him up quite like Crowley, and it would serve the demon right if Aziraphale just left, but it was hard not to be mollified when Crowley spoke like that, his hand gently cupping Aziraphale’s jaw, looking at him with such simple devotion. 

“I know you do. Listen, we know they’re after us, and it’s dangerous, but we can’t do anything about that. And our odds are better now than ever before. And, you know, we’ve got each other. Aziraphale. I love you.”

“I love you too, Crowley.” 

The reply was instinctive, and just saying it made him smile, his jangled nerves settling slowly. Azriaphale allowed himself to be pulled back into Crowley’s arms, sliding his own around Crowley’s waist and then down just a little further, until the demon’s arse was cradled nicely in his hands. It was exactly the right size for them. 

It was enough, for now at least, since Aziraphale had gone almost an hour without kisses, and was feeling the lack very keenly. He tipped back his head just a little way, and met Crowley’s lips with his own, mouths opening against one another almost at once, greedy and hot, Crowley’s tongue sliding against Aziraphale’s. The edge of the desk pressed against the back of Aziraphale’s thighs and he squirmed up to perch himself upon it, scattering trowels and string and seed packets, so that Crowley had to lean over him to reach his mouth, cradling his head in both hands as red hair fell in a curtain around them. Hungry little noises escaped him that sent love and desire unfurling through Aziraphale’s whole body.

“Sorry, by the way,” said Crowley, after they had been kissing for long enough that Aziraphale had half-forgotten how close they had come to an argument.

“For what?” 

Crowley grinned, white and feral, pressing his forehead to Aziraphale’s and stared down at him, unblinking. “For scaring you, before.”

It was just like Crowley to remind him of it. Aziraphale rolled his eyes, unwilling to dignify the apology with a response. Not that it put Crowley off.

“You should let me make it up to you.” His head ducked down to Aziraphale’s shoulder, and he sounded infuriatingly smug. 

“Ah. And how do you mean to do that?” asked Aziraphale, exactly as Crowley’s long tongue dipped down just inside Aziraphale’s buttoned collar to taste his skin, and he stifled a moan of pleasure. There could be no doubt that Aziraphale’s clothes were entirely filthy now, sweat darkening his shirt, holy water and soil smeared across his fawn trousers, and it bothered him not in the slightest.

“Same as you promised me. Anything. Anything you like.” 

If he was no less overheated, Aziraphale found that he was certainly far less exhausted. The realisation that they were safer from both Heaven and Hell than they had ever known was beginning to sink in, and with it came an unfamiliar giddiness that seized him with the desire for a little light revenge. Perhaps it was true, and he really did have a spark of demon within him. He thought about why he had come to the greenhouse in the first place, took a deep breath and rehearsed the sentence in his head.

“I think I should like to have you fuck me over this desk,” he said, managing to keep the tone impressively conversational, and noted with glee as Crowley’s brain appeared to stop working entirely. 

“Hngh?” asked Crowley, leaning back and staring. Gold flooded from his irises to cover the whole of his eye, beautiful enough to make Aziraphale’s jaw drop in wonder. He’d never seen it happen before, and it took a second for him to recover enough for speech. 

“But not today. Not when we have that lovely bed upstairs.” 

“Where the Heaven did that come from?” asked Crowley, wide-eyed and sounding faintly strangled. 

“I may not be a wily seducer by trade, my dear, but I hardly came down in the last shower,” said Aziraphale primly, and ventured a squeeze. It really was a very nice arse. “Perhaps you haven’t been paying attention.”

“Oh, you have my full attention,” said Crowley, growling most pleasingly. 

He lifted one hand and clicked his fingers, transporting the pair of them at once to the aforementioned bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to Hoomhum for the beta! 
> 
> PSA: The next chapter is basically porn. I'll put a summary in the notes at the end of anything that might be useful to know, but just FYI. ;)


	14. Chapter 14 (EXPLICIT)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Fellatio,” he said, to show he understood, and a sharp, panicked laugh burst from Crowley._  
_“Yeah, that. Generally call them blowjobs now.”_  
_“But one doesn’t…” Aziraphale said quickly, anxious not to misunderstand. It had been a long time, but he couldn’t recall much blowing being involved._

\---

Crowley’s aim was a little off, alas, and when they appeared it was half-way across the bed, stumbling and flailing until they landed with Crowley sprawled on his back and Aziraphale kneeling over him.

“I meant to do that,” began Crowley. Aziraphale merely nodded, bending down for another kiss before the demands of ego could derail things. His hands slipped easily up inside the open shirt Crowley wore to push it from his shoulders and toss it carelessly aside. 

“Can I throw your clothes on the floor too?”

“If you like,” said Aziraphale. It was hard to care about clothes just at the moment, as he ran his hands over the beautiful sculpture of Crowley’s shoulders, enraptured by the wiry strength of his bare arms. “They already need a wash.”

Crowley’s eyebrows rose. “Can’t refuse an offer like that.” 

He ran a slyly seductive fingertip slowly down the front of Aziraphale’s waistcoat, which miraculously unbuttoned itself. Then he repeated the gesture for the shirt. Then he paused, apparently brought up short by the sight of Aziraphale’s undershirt, until with a scowl he pulled the hem out of Aziraphale’s trouser waistband and blessed loudly at the singlet underneath.

“This is like pass the parcel,” he snarled, tugging furiously at the layers of fabric with both hands.

“I don’t know what that is,” said Aziraphale, and lifted his arms to squirm out of it all as fast as he could manage. Instinctively he used a quick miracle to fold them all up neatly out of the way, only to discover that Crowley wasn’t touching him any more. 

He was staring at the exposed celestial mark on Aziraphale’s chest. 

It wasn’t anything special, really, a palm-sized golden shape that stretched across his sternum, mostly in the middle but slightly skewed to the left side of his body. Every Angel had one somewhere. On the rare occasions that he thought of it at all, Aziraphale considered his own to be no more than a big, shiny freckle, and was simply glad it was easy to cover up. Crowley, however, was regarding it with awe.

“I knew it had to be on you somewhere,” said Crowley softly. “Over your heart, of course it is. Of course.”

Crowley reached forward to touch it reverently, and Aziraphale hardly dared breathe. Its placement wasn’t something that had ever occurred to him before, but if Crowley liked it, then he was glad. It would still be there later, however, and he was loath to lose the momentum of the current moment. He laid a hand tentatively on the buckle of Crowley’s belt, wondering if it would be too forward to undo it. 

Crowley fumbled the belt open himself and wriggled out of his extremely tight trousers without hesitation, shedding them with remarkable speed. 

“Yeah. You next,” he said, reaching for the buttons of Aziraphale’s fly and craning his neck up to kiss him again.

It was decidedly difficult to get one’s trousers off whilst on all fours upon a bed. Aziraphale’s buttons caught on one of his sock garters, and those were definitely too fiddly to do anything about just at the moment, so he shook one leg vigorously and then the next, eventually kicking the garment off with absolutely no grace whatsoever. 

Not that Crowley seemed to notice, his attention caught once more, this time by the garters around Aziraphale’s calves.

“I should make you keep those on,” he said, and it was hard to tell if he was joking. 

Aziraphale was about to laugh, until a thought struck him suddenly, a pang that he couldn’t quite hide. “Oh,” he said, sitting back on his heels. “You’re not wearing socks.”

“What?”

“It doesn’t matter. Never mind.” 

“I can wear socks,” said Crowley, and suddenly they were there on his feet. “Is this a thing for you? Why are we wearing socks?”

He was resting up on his elbows now, gorgeous against the white sheets in his black singlet, shorts and socks, with Aziraphale still kneeling between his legs. The hair was different, of course, and the white sheets very different from the dingy grime of Hell, but still, the general look was familiar enough. Aziraphale beamed at Crowley, whose head wagged very slightly, eyebrows drawn together in confusion, his whole expression aroused and bewildered in equal measure.

“The last time I saw you like this,” explained Aziraphale, “I couldn’t let myself go any further, you see. You haven’t the least idea how it’s haunted my mind ever since. May I?”

Crowley nodded, wordless, and Aziraphale bit his lip in anticipation. He reached down to one side, delicately unrolling the fine, silk-knitted fabric from Crowley’s right leg. The demon was all skin and sinew, lean under his soft hands, and hairier than one might expect from a body that was once a snake. 

“I hope I’m not tickling,” he said, directing the words to the sole of Crowley’s foot.

“Not,” said Crowley. “Tickling. No.” His breathing was becoming somewhat laboured, and the generous curved bulge that pressed up against his tight black shorts twitched slightly. 

“I love you,” said Aziraphale. It felt like something he could never say too often. He pressed a kiss to the top of Crowley’s bony foot before turning to the other side, peeling off the second sock and laying his hands carefully and deliberately at the hem of Crowley’s singlet. “This next?”

“Yes,” hissed Crowley, and Aziraphale felt a small flush of pride. It was very rare indeed for Crowley’s sibilants to get the better of him. Delicately he pushed the fabric up and over Crowley’s head, hands skimming over bony ribs and dark nipples, and kissed Crowley’s mouth as it reappeared from underneath. 

Crowley broke the kiss, throwing his head back against the pillow, his hands groping at Aziraphale’s arse through his underthings. “All of it, Angel, come on!”

“Everything?” asked Aziraphale, still unclear about the garters. 

“Everything,” groaned Crowley, and Aziraphale giggled. What, after all, were miracles for? He rather wished he’d thought of it before the skirmish with his trousers. It seemed silly to rush, after waiting for so long, but it was terribly hard not to.

He sat back once more to pull down the miracle, and they were naked. Both of them looked down. There could hardly be any shame in it, after so long waiting. 

“Oh my,” said Aziraphale admiringly, every suspicion confirmed. “I knew someone at the corporeal issuing office liked you. I could tell, when we swapped bodies. It felt quite different.”

“Don’t know that they liked me. You wouldn’t believe the number of jokes about snakes.” Crowley replied, own gaze glued to Aziraphale’s plump pink cock where it rose against the curve of his stomach. It wasn’t small, but it was hardly impressive in comparison to Crowley’s. “Fuck, Angel, you’re gorgeous. What do you want? Anything, anything at all.”

Gorgeous felt a bit much, especially with Crowley laid out like a masterpiece before him, golden as a fire, lean and sinuous and perfect. Even his navel was bewitching. The line of hair that led downwards from it was entrancing. The thick, dark cock that lay alongside that line of hair looked frankly delicious, and Aziraphale could feel his mouth watering, his heart racing. 

“I don’t know! I don’t know where to start, I want everything. Or at least, that is to say, everything you want too. I’m not about to ask for anything that might make you uncomfortable, obviously,” explained Aziraphale, faintly aware that he was beginning to babble.

Crowley sat up and took Aziraphale’s face in two hands, staring into his eyes very directly, and spoke slowly. “Six thousand years, Angel. Anything you can think of, I’ve had a wank about you doing it. Or us doing it. Or me doing it to you. I promise.”

The thought of Crowley touching himself to thoughts of Aziraphale cleared every other idea clean out of Aziraphale’s head, and he could only gape in amazement for a moment. 

“What do you think about most? When you… think about me?”

Crowley swallowed. “Your mouth, quite a lot,” he said awkwardly. 

Aziraphale nodded eagerly. “Fellatio,” he said, to show he understood, and a sharp, panicked laugh burst from Crowley.

“Yeah, that. Generally call them blowjobs now.”

“But one doesn’t…” Aziraphale said quickly, anxious not to misunderstand. It had been a long time, but he couldn’t recall much blowing being involved.

“No, good point, no idea why I brought that up, stupid name for them. Stupid.”

“Well,” said Aziraphale. “Shall I just… and we’ll sort of… see how we go?”

“If you want,” said Crowley breathlessly, his eyes still wide and golden, and since Aziraphale did want, very much, that was what he did. The bed was large enough for him to scoot back on it easily without fear of falling off, until he could lay his hands upon the soft skin of Crowley’s inner thighs, leaning forward to breath in deeply. The scent was Crowley’s, but muskier, deeper, and extremely enticing. He nosed further in to the hair at the base of Crowley’s cock, darker but still reddish, and put out his tongue for a taste.

“Haaah,” said Crowley. He was half-sitting against the pillows, staring down at Aziraphale with an expression that might well have contained a little terror.

“Promise you’ll stop me if you don’t like it. I don’t want to do anything you aren’t happy with.”

“I’m very happy,” said Crowley, with effort. “Believe me, I am. I just, this is happening. You’re… doing that. It’s weird. Good weird, very good weird.”

“Well then.” Aziraphale wrapped his hand around Crowley’s cock, and licked a stripe up the velvet hardness to the top. He pressed a kiss to the softness of the head, fitting his lips around it, and sucked gently. The taste was faintly of salt, and just a whisper of bitterness that Aziraphale longed for more of, moaning as he pushed further forward, putting out his tongue to slick his way down the length until his mouth was entirely filled. 

“Oh fuck,” said Crowley. “Oh, fucking Heaven.”

It was rather like riding a velocipede, thought Aziraphale, in the corner of his mind still capable of such thoughts, or would be if one had learned to ride upon an old boneshaker and then suddenly found oneself wearing the yellow jersey on the last day of the Tour de France. He drew back and dipped his head again, the feel of Crowley’s cock not just heavy against his tongue, not just a heady, choking slide against the back of Aziraphale’s throat, but a pulsing desire that thrummed through every inch of his body. He could feel Crowley’s love and lust pouring into him, sparking in the air around them, crackling across the linen sheets. He hooked his hands around Crowley’s slender thighs, anchoring himself closer, feeling the trembling muscle there.

“You don’t need to breathe,” groaned Crowley, throwing an arm across his face. “You bastard, I’ve used that trick, I should’ve known…”

Aziraphale chuckled around the thickness in his throat and swallowed hard, taking Crowley even deeper. He had always rather liked this act, the pleasure of the sensation perfectly set off by the faint ache in his jaw, and Crowley was a most gratifying recipient. Above him, the demon panted and swore, twining his fingers through Aziraphale’s hair, until Crowley’s hips jumped hard against him, and suddenly the fingers dug into his hair were clutching tightly, dragging him upward. 

“Stop, stop.” 

For a moment Aziraphale was afraid he’d done something wrong, but Crowley looked quite the opposite of displeased. Indeed, he was positively ruined already, a flush on his cheeks that spread halfway down his chest, and as he licked his lower lip, the very tip of his tongue appeared to have split into a darling little fork. “You’re too good at that, Angel, I’m fucking… close… miracles can only do so much, you know?”

“That was rather the point,” said Aziraphale, wiping his lips as delicately as he could. “I was looking forward to having you come in my mouth.”

Crowley rolled his gaze up to the ceiling and growled something incomprehensible, hands clenching into fists at his sides. When he spoke again even his voice sounded wrecked, as if he was clinging to his self-control by its very last thread.

“That’s great, really, and we can definitely, totally do that if you want, I just… I want to do things for you, Angel. I want to make you feel good, and I can’t touch you enough when you’re all the way down there, and I want to look in your eyes when you… you know… when...”

“Oh, dearest heart.” Aziraphale leaned forward, cupping Crowley’s cheek in one hand. “You can do anything you want with me. Anything at all, I promise.”

“What do you want?” asked Crowley, and it sounded as if he was begging. His thumb stroked across Aziraphale’s wet, swollen lower lip, dipping inside, and Aziraphale sucked again, eagerly. “You said, you said you wanted me to fuck you. Do you want that?” 

“Ooh,” breathed Aziraphale. If Crowley had felt deliciously big in his mouth, he could only imagine how glorious that stretch might feel elsewhere. “Yes please. I think I’d like that very much.”

Crowley’s attempts to respond did not quite manage language, coming out as more of a strangled growl. He grabbed at Aziraphale’s hips to drag him upwards, his wet cock grinding hard against Aziraphale’s stomach, and then Crowley’s deft, strong hands stroked down over naked skin. They reached the curve of Aziraphale’s arse and he felt the faint miracle of Crowley’s fingers becoming slick. 

“Shit. I can’t see what I’m doing,” grumbled Crowley, not that it appeared to slow him down. 

Whatever lubricating substance he had conjured felt slightly cool against the heat of Aziraphale’s skin, the delicate circling and press inside of one finger, then two, an exquisite teasing pleasure. He squirmed against it, eager for more, well aware it might take a while for him to be ready for Crowley without some miraculous intervention.

“I need you to turn around,” said Crowley between kisses, the fork of his tongue flicking against Aziraphale’s neck.

Aziraphale looked over his shoulder. In the wardrobe mirror behind him, he could see Crowley’s long, wet fingers working their way in and out of him, disappearing inside up to the knuckles, and bit his lip at the sight of it. 

“No,” said Crowley, tugging at him and sounding a little impatient. “I mean actually turn around. Let me do this properly.”

Obediently, Aziraphale shuffled on legs already slightly unstable until he was facing the mirror. He could see his nakedness jiggle as he moved, and Gabriel’s words in the park flickered, unwelcome, through his mind. He looked down instead, at Crowley’s dear lanky legs and long feet laid out before him, then moaned gratefully as he felt himself broached once more by something hot, and wet, and definitely not quite the same as before.

“Oooh,” he moaned, gripping the sheets in both hands and struggling not to wail. That was Crowley’s marvellous tongue, hot and wicked, pressing inside him alongside his fingers, licking and teasing him open with such skill he was helpless with it in very short order. His arms gave out beneath him and he pressed his cheek down on the linens, between Crowley’s ankles, the faintly rough texture grounding him for a moment. 

“Darling, please,” he managed. It was too good, too much, and all he wanted was more.

“Please what?” asked Crowley, sounding smug and slightly muffled, and not letting up the slow thrust of his fingers for a moment.

“Please, Crowley!” wailed Aziraphale, then moaned helplessly as Crowley’s fingers withdrew from him, feeling empty, needy, achingly incomplete. He allowed himself to be helped as he twisted back around, halfway to incapable with sensation, shuffling forward until he knelt facing Crowley once more. 

“There,” said Crowley, looking up at him awestruck and hungry, his mouth shining wet. “Just look at the state of you. I did that. Poor Angel, up you come.”

Crowley spoke so gently, guiding him into position with one hand, the other around the thickness of his cock, and then Aziraphale felt the blunt, shocking press of it against him, the sudden hot solidity of something so large and hard inside him, unyielding and utterly different from fingers or tongues. He sank down carefully on trembling thighs, rocking slowly until he could take all of it. He was glad they had foregone miracles, the stretch almost too much to bear, just on the edge of pain and exactly enough to ground him, anchoring him to this body and this physical moment. It was more full, more complete than he had ever felt before, and his head dropped forward, eyelids fluttering shut. 

“You ok, Angel?” breathed Crowley. His dark red hair spilled across the white linen and his skin was like burnished amber, and he gazed up at Aziraphale, golden eyes rapt, quite the most gorgeous being in all creation.

“Oh, glorious,” sighed Aziraphale, lifting himself just a little to sink back down. “My darling, you fill me so nicely.”

“Augh,” groaned Crowley eloquently, his hips snapping up against Aziraphale hard enough to make him gasp with pleasure. 

It was hardly Divine, this act, to have his arse loosened and lubricated and fucked full of thick cock, but nor could he imagine such sweet exhilarating joy being something profane. Even the contradiction was perfect: perfectly human, wonderful and wicked and absurd all at once. He rose and fell again, easier this time, faster the next, until the slap of skin against skin became a rhythm of need and hunger. 

Aziraphale was dimly aware that the light in the room had changed to an ethereal glow, and that the source of the light was himself. He tried to damp it down instinctively, screwing his eyes shut and groaning at the effort. It really didn’t feel as if he had much control of himself at all now, his body still moving almost without his volition, increasingly frantic, and the air around them both thick with such love and desire it was overwhelming.

“Don’t you dare,” gasped Crowley, leaning up on one hand and clasping Aziraphale’s face with the other. “Look at me. Show me, Angel.”

Aziraphale wasn’t quite sure what he was being asked for, but he could deny Crowley’s pleading face nothing. He let the light shine, bright around his head and shoulders, and the effort stole the last shred of composure from him. He bent to press his mouth against Crowley’s, pushing his tongue inside, possessing him in every way he was able even though the angle was horribly awkward. Crowley’s hand reached down to wrap around his cock for the first time, and he made a muffled, animal moan of desperation. Long skillful fingers stroked him for mere seconds until he came, painting Crowley’s chest and the sheets, and with a sudden whoosh Aziraphale’s wings appeared suddenly behind him, unfurling so rapidly a white feather or two drifted loose through the air. 

“Fuck!” snarled Crowley, and now a pair of ink-black wings were flung outwards, sending the table lamps from both nightstands clattering to the floor. He threw back his head against the pillows, teeth bared, and his hands clutched at Aziraphale, grinding deep into his body as he came. 

This, this was the most perfect moment of his life, thought Aziraphale. He must look ridiculous, surely, sweating and breathless and bouncing naked in Crowley’s lap. He didn’t care, couldn’t care. All that he wanted was to be this ridiculous forever. It felt like drowning in pleasure, consumed entirely by love and lust and joy and exhaustion, more than Divine and all the better for it. 

“I love you, my darling, I love you so much, Crowley, my love, my heart,” he babbled, kissing Crowley’s face as the demon twitched and whined in his arms, slumping at last against him as Aziraphale felt the last waves of his climax singing through the connection between them.

“I love you,” gasped Crowley. “Fuck. That was…” He seemed at a loss to finish the sentence.

“It was wonderful,” Aziraphale told him, wriggling himself forward in Crowley’s lap, trying to keep his beloved inside him for as long as could be managed.

“You’re wonderful,” grumbled Crowley, leaning back a little to assist him in the attempt and trying to sound disgruntled about it. 

Aziraphale giggled, and smoothed a hand down Crowley’s glorious, if now distinctly tangled, hair. He curled his wings up and around to cocoon them, and noting fondly that Crowley did the same. It was nice, to make this little tent around them that no-one else could ever enter, lit by his own heavenly radiance. Crowley leaned his forehead against Aziraphale’s, and his eyes were still entirely yellow, no white visible at all.

“Do you always light up like that? Not that I’m complaining.”

“No! No, it’s never happened before, or the wings, I can assure you. That’s all you, darling. Although I suppose it has been an awfully long time since I last… did this sort of thing. I might just be a bit pent up.”

“Me too,” said Crowley, catching his breath again, then frowned. “How long?”

“Not since before the Blitz, certainly,” said Aziraphale. “When you rescued my books. That was when I knew I couldn’t pretend any more.” 

“And before then? Fucked a lot of humans, have you?” It looked as if the question hurt to ask, and Aziraphale wasn’t quite sure what the point of it was, certainly not at a moment like this.

He considered the question as his hands ran delicately over Crowley’s sides. Perhaps it was reasonable to be curious. He thought of the Constantinople soldier, afraid that he would die without ever having known a lover’s touch, and the widow in Russia who had been so lonely. He thought of the sweet girl who had begged him to ruin her so she would not be married to some vile aristocrat, and the poor disfigured fellow in Korea convinced he could never be loved. And Oscar, of course, poor dear tragic Oscar.

“Not many,” he said. “No-one that compared to you. I don’t suppose anyone ever could have. I love you.”

The pain on Crowley’s face melted into something dreadfully tender for a moment before he grimaced, his softened cock sliding out at last. There was a moment of damp, sticky unpleasantness that was gone so quickly Aziraphale could not be sure which of them had done it.

“I never loved anyone but you,” said Crowley softly. “Sometimes I think I was made for you.”

“Oh, darling. I’m not sure we’d suit anyone else, not really,” giggled Aziraphale, wriggling his wings. “Couldn’t do this with a human, could I?”

“They’re in a state, Angel. You’re going to have to let me groom them one day.”

Aziraphale laughed, so full of joy he could almost burst with it. The thought of having Crowley’s attention lavished upon his wings was delicious, but it would have to join the list.

“Maybe later,” he said. “You interrupted me before, however, so for now I’d like to finish off giving you a blown job, please.”

“Blowjob, Angel,” groaned Crowley, though he looked equally as amused as he was offended. “If you insist.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WE FINALLY EARNED THE RATING GUYS, WE MADE IT. *pops champagne cork*
> 
> Thanks to Hoomhum and Yubi for beta-ing!


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Ever since their first conversation in the garden, the most recent garden, although thinking about it, really, perhaps it was since the first garden after all, Aziraphale had been increasingly curious about Crowley before his Fall. That he had been someone of importance seemed likely, given the scope of his miraculous abilities. Aziraphale didn’t think he’d missed any inch of Crowley’s body since they’d reached the bedroom, although he was perfectly willing to search further if it turned out he was wrong on that score. But there was nothing that resembled a celestial mark on Crowley’s skin. Not any more._

\---

Outside, night had fallen once again. Aziraphale popped downstairs to throw a few dog biscuits into the garden for Anthony, who had no doubt been wondering why his meals had stopped appearing for the past few days.

“I’m sorry, old boy,” said Aziraphale soothingly, as reflective eyes appeared instantly from under the bushes. “Got a bit caught up with your namesake, I’m afraid.”

He slipped back indoors to the sound of happy crunching, and climbed the stairs quietly. The night was still, the house silent but for the squeak of the door as he came back to the bedroom. He held his breath as he closed it, anxious not to wake Crowley. They had both been rather exhausted by the time the poor fellow fell asleep.

But Crowley lay still sprawled across at least three-quarters of the bed, the covers twisted up around narrow hips so that his naked back glowed pale in the moonlight and the red of his hair looked almost black. As carefully as he could, Aziraphale squeezed his way back into the space available, and as soon as he had, long limbs reached out greedily to twine around him in an unmistakably snakelike fashion, all apparently without Crowley waking up. 

It was warm in the bed, and warmer yet in Crowley’s arms. Aziraphale snuggled back down happily and permitted himself to twirl a lock of long hair in his fingers, revelling once more in the sensations of his body being more well used than ever before. It felt very human and also not human, all at the same time. He ached deliciously in several places and his skin seemed to tingle all over, but most of all he felt the love between himself and Crowley shining ever brighter. It seemed to pulse, like a slow heartbeat, and it permeated Aziraphale down to his very bones. It was sharper where their skin touched, and their skin touched almost everywhere it could. 

Crowley’s breathing remained low and slow, but his hand had shifted, resting over Aziraphale’s heart, or rather over the gilded skin of his Celestial mark. 

Ever since their first conversation in the garden, the most recent garden, although thinking about it, really, perhaps it was since the first garden after all, Aziraphale had been increasingly curious about Crowley before his Fall. That he had been someone of importance seemed likely, given the scope of his miraculous abilities. Aziraphale didn’t think he’d missed any inch of Crowley’s body since they’d reached the bedroom, although he was perfectly willing to search further if it turned out he was wrong on that score. But there was nothing that resembled a celestial mark on Crowley’s skin. Not any more. 

“I can hear you thinking, Angel,” said Crowley, opening one eye, the iris shrunk back down to a circle. “Spit it out.”

Aziraphale laughed softly, startled, and laid his hand over Crowley’s. “All right then. What was. If I may. What was yours?”

The long elegant fingers beneath his curled into a loose fist. “Right, of course.” 

“My dear. You don’t have to tell me.”

“It was my eyes,” said Crowley, as if Aziraphale hadn’t spoken. “Lambent and glorious, as golden as twin stars. Definitely my best feature. Probably why they got taken, pride cometh before the Fall and all that.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale frowned, confused. “But you still have golden eyes.” 

“No, no I don’t. These?” Crowley rolled away onto his back, and covered them with the hand so recently tracing Aziraphale’s chest. “These are ugly, yellow things. Like sulphur, not starlight. Mine were beautiful.”

Crowley’s fingers parted and he glanced over, just a sliver of golden yellow revealed, and they really were breathtaking. In the darkness, they glowed, just a little, more exquisite than anything Aziraphale had ever seen in the whole span of his existence. 

“I’m glad we didn’t meet before, then,” said Aziraphale, softly. “I don’t want to see anything more beautiful than your eyes, just as they are. They’re very lovely, even if you don’t know it.”

Crowley was watching him. “I had golden wings, too. Back then.” 

Aziraphale swallowed, startled again. Eyes and wings, he thought. In the general hierarchy of Heaven, the more senior the position, the more obvious one’s celestial mark. Heaven was many things, but subtle had never been one of them. Gabriel, Michael and Uriel had golden wings, not that Aziraphale had seen them out for centuries, and he had never even met the last Archangel, the final one of four. As far as Aziraphale knew, that one’s job had mainly been to build galaxies, which naturally kept him away from Head Office.

“Gosh,” managed Aziraphale, a mere Principality. If he even counted as that any more.

“I’m nothing special in Hell,” said Crowley, still observing him carefully, though his mouth twisted with wry sorrow as he spoke. “Not a Duke or anything. Glad of it, really.”

Aziraphale reached out on instinct, pulling Crowley into his arms. The demon stiffened in his hold for a moment, then softened against him, then sighed. It wasn’t even particularly loud, but filled with such yearning it was like a physical pain in Aziraphale’s body.

“I always thought he… you… were still up there,” said Aziraphale, unwilling to use a name Crowley had not spoken. 

He felt Crowley snort with laughter against his chest. “Is that what they told you? Typical.”

“So Hell really doesn’t know who you... were?”

“Satan might, with the whole apple thing. Might have wanted to make sure I was, you know. Committed to the cause. I just picked up my new name and went topside as soon as I could, I mean temptation’s one thing, but torturing souls? Not really my scene.”

“No,” agreed Aziraphale. “I can’t imagine it would be.”

“It’s not like I wanted to be evil.” Crowley wriggled against him, and his voice became very quiet. “All I did was ask too many questions.”

That couldn’t be right, surely. Aziraphale felt as if the world was sliding sideways from under him, more utterly confounded with each word from Crowley’s lips. “Are you sure?”

Crowley looked up at him, the faint glow casting his cheekbones into lovely relief. “That’s all it took, Angel. And then I could never go back, never be redeemed. Everything I was got burned away forever. Never got any answers, either.”

“But that doesn’t seem fair at all! It would be terribly unjust!”

“Well, it’s not like I regret it, not now. It all led here and I’m not complaining,” said Crowley, reaching up to fiddle with one of Aziraphale’s nipples, lazily drawing a fingertip around the nub as he spoke. It felt very pleasantly tingly, and Aziraphale shivered, too bewildered by their conversation to respond any further. He stroked a hand over the long, soft curls of Crowley’s hair and stared out into nothingness for a long while.

“I lied to God,” he said at last. “She asked me where my sword was and I said I’d just put it down somewhere. Last time She ever spoke to me.”

Crowley’s hand stopped moving. “You what?”

“I panicked,” said Aziraphale. “It’s not like She wouldn’t already know where it was, anyway.”

“You lied. To God. You lied to God.”

“Yes.”

“But you didn’t fall.”

“No.”

There was a long silence. They stared at one another.

“Ineffable,” said Crowley, and pinched Aziraphale’s nipple, although not very hard.

“I’m so sorry,” said Aziraphale, trying to ignore the sharp pulse of desire that had gone directly to his cock. It hardly seemed appropriate, under the circumstances.

Crowley shook his head and grinned, looking remarkably unperturbed. “Don’t worry about it, Angel. It’s not like I’d go back, not if Gabriel begged me himself. I’ve got you now. I can’t care about the rest of it. You were the hardest fall I ever took, anyway.”

Aziraphale could feel tears prickling against his eyes. It was all so very unfair, that Crowley should have fallen when he had not, that Aziraphale had never guessed how small his rebellion had been, and most of all it was unfair how casually Crowley could say such romantic things. 

“I suppose it’s a good job I caught you, in the end,” he said.

“You did,” agreed Crowley, leaning in to kiss him thoroughly, and there was no hiding his body’s interest now. Luckily it appeared to be mutual. “You did."

\---

It was almost dawn, and Crowley really was asleep this time, snoring softly. Even Aziraphale had dozed for a while in between their activities, since immortal beings might have infinite stamina but his corporeal form appreciated the pause nonetheless.

He had woken as the sky outside began to lighten and found himself unable to drop back off. He was also distinctly peckish. They must have been in bed for days by now, once he began to think of it, and in short order he had extracted himself from their bed, dressed in the bathroom, and padded quietly down to the kitchen.

Soon there was toast for breakfast, thickly spread with a particularly fine local marmalade, and Aziraphale had taken no more than his first bite when Crowley came downstairs himself, immaculately dressed as ever. He had apparently forgotten to pass a mirror on his way down, however, since his hair remained gloriously askew. There was probably quite a bit of semen still in there, from both of them, and possibly lubricant as well. Aziraphale beamed at him.

“You weren’t there when I woke up,” said Crowley, sounding very much put out.

Aziraphale took his hand, and leaned up to kiss him, deftly miracling the red curls into some sort of order while Crowley was distracted. That at least was well received, and Crowley pulled away looking mollified. 

“I’m sorry, dearest. We had been in bed an awfully long time, you know. I’ve quite lost track of what day it is.”

Crowley fished the phone out of the back pocket of his trousers and checked it, his eyebrows rising suddenly. “It’s Saturday. Shit. Good job we didn’t have to worry about going to Ana’s.”

“It is, rather. Although I do wonder what that vision of hers was, just before we left,” mused Aziraphale. “The one that meant we shouldn’t come to her house last Tuesday. She said it was very vivid. You don’t suppose...”

They both froze as the same thought occurred to them, then Crowley threw back his head and laughed uproariously. 

“Poor girl! No wonder she couldn’t look either of us in the eye.”

“Oh, heavens,” groaned Aziraphale, covering his face with both hands. 

“I’m going to do coffee, do you want one of your ones? Half a pint of cream and a tablespoon of chocolate powder?”

“I might need one,” admitted Aziraphale, lost in the horror of realisation. It was a more bracing sort of beverage that Crowley had made for him a week or so previously. Aziraphale had liked it very much, almost as much as his usual cocoa. 

The thought of having being seen, however inadvertently, in the throes of passion was too mortifying to contemplate. He wasn’t at all sure he could ever look Anathema in the eye again, and wondered desperately just how detailed her visions were. Perhaps they were more allegorical than literal? Not that he would ever, ever ask. Not in a thousand years. Best to just not think about it, although for the moment it was hard to think about anything else. 

“Angel.”

Crowley had paused by the sink, kettle in hand, and was staring out of the kitchen window. It was hard to see what had caught his attention from where Aziraphale sat, and he pushed back his chair, rounding the table to find out and eager for a change of subject.

“Oh!” he said, delighted. “Look at that!”

The tree in their garden had remained stubbornly at least a month or two behind any others in the area, and though it had finally sprouted fruit, the apples had remained resolutely green even up to last week, as he had passed it on the way to the greenhouse. Aziraphale wondered if they were meant to stay that way, but Crowley, who knew more about such things, was firmly of the view that they were of a variety that should be at least somewhat red before picking. He had become quite angry with the poor thing, in fact.

But now every apple on the tree shone out a bright, gleaming red. He glanced over to Crowley, whose expression mixed pride and frustration in equal measure.

“Bit on the nose,” he said, shaking his head. “Cheeky. I’ll have to have a word.” 

“Is it?” asked Aziraphale, not quite understanding. He rested his head against Crowley’s shoulder and slid a hand into the empty back pocket of Crowley’s jeans, where his palm could rest against the demon’s arse very conveniently. How nice it was, to be able to do such things so freely. “They look delicious, don’t they?”

In the crisp light of morning the tree was quite a picture, framed by the white-painted window frame against a backdrop of winter branches. One fruit in particular hung lower than the rest, dangling from the tip of a branch most enticingly. Aziraphale regarded it thoughtfully, and at just that moment Crowley’s wireless telephone, abandoned on the table, began to ring. 

The screen read “Book Girl” and Crowley answered it, eyebrows raised.

“What’s… hey, calm down. Let me put you on speaker,” he said, and pressed something on the handset so that now Aziraphale could hear Anathema too. She sounded distressed.

“Yeah, hey, guys, are you uh… are you busy?”

Crowley grinned at Aziraphale like a snake and he felt his face turn hot again. How much had she seen, anyway?

“Nope,” said Crowley.

“Ok, good, so are you maybe in Hogback Wood right now?”

“...Nope?” said Crowley. 

“Oh shit, shit, I thought it wasn’t you. I just had a vision, a real big one, knocked me on my ass, an angel and a demon in Hogback Wood. I think they’re there now. No, I’m sure of it. I don’t know if they’re looking for Adam, but it’s Saturday, I guess they could be, and he’s not answering his phone. Newt and I are going to head over, I don’t know if it’s going to be dangerous...”

“Yeah, we’ll meet you there,” said Crowley grimly, and Anathema’s voice cut off suddenly as he slid the telephone into the back pocket of his trousers and dumped the kettle in the sink, reaching for Aziraphale’s hand. 

“How long will it take us to get there?” Panic rose in Aziraphale’s chest. “Even with miracles it’s a fair drive, what if something happens before we can…”

Before he could say more, Crowley had grabbed him and a surge of energy surrounded them, strong enough to shift the world from under his feet and sweep the pair of them through reality in the blink of an eye. Teleportation was a miracle, of course, but Aziraphale had never tried to move himself more than a mile at most. Moving two individual entities such a distance had not even occurred to him.

But such things were different for ex-Archangels, evidently.

The leaves of Hogback wood crunched under his feet as he staggered to catch his balance, and he recognised the bend of the path as the one that led to the Them’s camp.

“Come on, Angel,” said Crowley, and they ran.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Hoomhumhobbit for the beta and cheerleading - you are a wonder. :D


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Demons,” said Crowley. “Extremely powerful supernatural beings, possibly armed, definitely dangerous.”_
> 
> _“But demons aren’t real.” Wensleydale sounded less confident than usual, and Crowley threw up his hands in frustration._

\---

“Why are you here?”

Pepper’s expression took on a familiarly suspicious cast, and she folded her arms once more, eyes narrowed. The rest of the Them watched with interest from various points of their woodland camp. There was no sign of any demonic or celestial presence in the area, and the most dangerous thing Crowley and Aziraphale seemed to have interrupted was a lively discussion about the value of learning Algebra. 

“We were… in the area?” said Aziraphale. 

“Excuse me,” said Wensleydale, who appeared to have some shiny, sparkly cosmetic on his lips. It was a pretty colour and definitely suited him. “But why?”

“Good question,” nodded Aziraphale. “Crowley?”

Crowley rounded on him with a glare even his dark glasses couldn’t conceal. “What? Uh, a whuh, a walk! Walk! We went for a walk? That’s a thing, right?”

Aziraphale was reasonably sure that going on walks in the woods was a thing that humans did - indeed, he could remember several works of poetry to that effect - but the children seemed unconvinced. Even Dog put his head on one side and whined. It was extremely wet in Hogback Wood, having clearly been raining before they arrived, and the bare trees were dripping into dirty puddles all around them. Aziraphale winced as a large, cold drop slid down the back of his collar. It certainly wasn’t the most picturesque day for a jaunt.

“I say, would any of you like to see a magic trick?” he asked desperately. Wensleydale was nearest, so he reached for the child’s ear and drew out a 50 pence piece with rather less finesse than he would have liked. “Ta-dah!” 

“Actually, you took that out of your pocket,” said Wensleydale. “I saw you do it.”

Aziraphale put the coin away, rather at a loss, and cast about for some other distraction. The foul weather was probably not assisting his audience’s willingness to be deceived. Pepper had begun actively scowling at this point, and even Adam looked increasingly doubtful. Any moment they were going to start asking more questions.

“How about a card trick?” suggested Crowley, reaching into his jacket, and passed over a small, cellophane-wrapped rectangle.

Aziraphale seized the gift with relief. It was a touching one, since he was well aware how Crowley felt about his prestidigitations. “Now, watch closely!”

He peeled the wrapper off and began to shuffle the cards without looking, absently cutting and turning them, passing them from one hand to another, as he rifled through his mental library of tricks for something spectacular enough to impress. Already the skill was coming back to him, even since Warlock’s disastrous birthday party. All it really needed was practice. It took him a moment to notice that he had acquired the children’s rapt attention.

“That’s so cool,” breathed Brian, watching the cards fly about in Azriraphale’s hands.

“Is it?” asked Aziraphale, attempting modesty and failing utterly. He took the pack in his right hand and successfully popped the top card over to his left, then repeated the process the other way about, his confidence growing by the moment. The children drew closer as he spread them into a fan and held them out to Adam, who was quite as spellbound as any of them. “Pick a card!”

Adam drew eagerly, looked at his card, and his face turned immediately to confusion. For the first time, Aziraphale looked down at the pack in his hands. The backs of the cards were rather more intricate than usual. When inspected, the faces were considerably more so. His heart sank a little, and he glanced over at Crowley.

“The Rider-Waite? Really?”

“Worked, didn’t it? Would you have preferred the Marseille?” Crowley’s smile was more wicked than usual, and impossible not to forgive.

“Well, in that case, I suspect don’t need to do the trick. It’s probably the World, isn’t it.”

“That’s what it says at the bottom,” said Adam. Wensleydale looked over his shoulder. 

"No, it’s a naked woman. Her breasts are showing, actually," he said, faintly awed. 

"Sexist!" declared Pepper. "Let me see."

“Are these Tarot cards?” Adam asked, as the Them clustered about him staring at the card. “Ana’s got some but I’m not allowed to touch them. What does this one mean?”

“All sorts of things,” said Crowley, looking around himself suddenly, tense and alert. “Mostly, it means we’re not quite done yet, but it’s close. And then it all… starts again. Angel, can you feel that?”

“Like school,” said Brian glumly. “Every time you finish a project, you have to start another one.”

“I feel it,” said Aziraphale. There was a definite supernatural prickle in the air, a growing presence that signalled the approach of entities no more human than themselves. From the opposite direction, back towards the village, footsteps splashed and thudded, and Anathema and Newton appeared. Both were out of breath.

“Oh, thank god you’re okay!” panted Anathema with relief. “Where’s your phone, Adam?”

Adam shoved his card back into Aziraphale’s hand. “Must’ve left it at home. What’s going on? Why are you all here? Are we in danger?”

“Absolutely not,” said Aziraphale, at the same moment that Crowley said “Yes.”

“Now just hold on,” said Newton, then stopped. He took a small, bent blue tube of what looked like plastic from his pocket and inhaled from it deeply. “I think Ana and I should take Adam, Brian, Jeremy and Pepper home.”

“An excellent idea,” agreed Aziraphale. The inhuman presence was getting closer, and it was powerful. He stuffed the cards away hastily. “We’ll take care of things here.”

“What things?” asked Brian, without moving. A wooden sword had appeared in his hand from somewhere, and Pepper was holding one too. Anathema was attempting to shoo the children like chickens, and they were so far resisting her efforts entirely. 

“Demons,” said Crowley. “Extremely powerful supernatural beings, possibly armed, definitely dangerous.”

“But demons aren’t real.” Wensleydale sounded less confident than usual, and Crowley threw up his hands in frustration.

Adam stood up. “We should go,” he said firmly, and bent down to clip Dog’s lead to his collar.

There was no magic to it that Aziraphale could feel, but as Leader of the Them, Adam’s decision was still somehow final. Pepper continued to protest, demanding to know where and why they were going, but she did so whilst stowing her and Brian’s swords in a corner of the den. Brian had grabbed his anorak and handed Wensleydale what looked like a school textbook and a small lunchbox before joining them. Behind the children’s backs, Newton gave Aziraphale a cheerful thumbs-up.

“I’ll explain as we go,” said Anathema, and they left.

\---

Aziraphale and Crowley watched until the humans were out of sight. The rain had begun again, just a light shower, but with the threat of more in the darkening clouds overhead. 

“I didn’t put on my galoshes, oh dear. These boots are going to be ruined,” lamented Aziraphale, gazing sadly down at the damp, discolouring tan leather.

“Tragic,” said Crowley. He picked something up from the ground and handed it over. “Here, you dropped one.” 

It was another Tarot card. Upon it stood Adam and Eve, naked in Eden under the gaze of the Angel Raphael, though in Aziraphale’s opinion it wasn’t a very good likeness of any of them. At the bottom of the card the words “The Lovers” were printed in small capitals. 

He rolled his eyes, replaced it in his pocket, and set off after Crowley’s long-legged form, already loping through the damp woods. It was hard to avoid the puddles and still keep up, but he did his best, hopping and picking his way along the path. They were very good boots and it seemed a shame to let them be destroyed after having kept them so nicely for nearly a century. He didn’t see that Crowley had stopped, and very nearly barged straight into him.

“Gracious, I’m so sorry… oh.”

“Yeah,” said Crowley. “Hey guys.”

In the middle of the path before them stood two figures, not human, and very much not welcome. 

The rain fell around the Archangel Michael without touching her, sliding in silver drops around an invisible shield of celestial magic. Not a hair of her head was out of place and no trace of muck dared sully her pristine white outfit. Beside her stood an unfamiliar fellow, definitely not of Heaven’s host, since unlike Michael he was wet through, and mouldy enough that he might have been for some time already. Damp dribbled from the thinning brown hair plastered across his forehead, and he was short and skinny to the point of emaciation, his skin spread with suppurating yellow sores and his eyes too black to be human. 

“I told you the children were the key,” he said, rubbing his hands with a phlegmy chuckle. “He loves them. Find the brats, and you find Crowley.”

“Find Crowley, and I find this pathetic excuse for an Angel,” she agreed, with a smile too tightly gracious to be sincere. “Thank you, Duke Hastur.”

“Right, yeah,” said Crowley, snapping his fingers in recognition. “That was fast. Good to see you again, Hastur. You look, uh. Yeah. You look terrible, but that’s about as good as it gets for you, isn’t it.”

Hastur lunged towards him, just a step, but with such violence it looked involuntary. “Do you know what I had to do to get a body this quickly,” he said, his voice flat with rage. “Do you.”

“Mmn, rather not think about it. Did Lord Beelzebub send you?”

“No.” When Hastur spoke, it was with such seething hate it seemed to poison the very air around them. “You think they still love you down there, Mr Slick? Hell doesn’t give two shits about you any more. They want to forget you exist. No, this is all personal, Crowley. You killed Ligur, you bastard. He was my…” He trailed off, looking momentarily confused. “I worked with him.”

“So did I. Very useful liaison,” said Michael crisply, stepping forward with an air of command to stand beside the Duke of Hell once more. The ground beneath her feet became instantly dry as her immaculately pale shoes touched it. “And he didn’t smell of… well. However, Hastur has been telling me some very interesting things about you two. Some fascinating theories we just can’t wait to test.”

“Oh yes,” said Hastur. “I worked it out. New body, you see. Same demon on the inside, though. That’s what you did. It’s what’s on the inside that counts, isn’t it.”

There was no sound but the drumming of rain upon leaves for a moment as the words sank in, punctuated by a faint rumble of thunder not too far distant.

Crowley nodded, looking almost proud. “Well done, Hastur. Never thought you had it in you.”

“So here we are, and here are both of you. Face to face,” continued Hastur, addressing Aziraphale as if Crowley did not exist. “I don’t know how you escaped from the cottage, but you won’t get away this time. No room for tricks here.” 

He lifted his right hand and it smouldered into flame, a dirty orange fire that smoked like burning tyres and was instantly familiar. Aziraphale eyed it as calmly as he could. He remembered the excruciating agonies of touching Hellfire very well. It wasn’t like that for Crowley, who had said it barely hurt to touch Holy Water. Not at all the same thing.

“Angel,” grinned Hastur, and it was a very different word in his mouth than Crowley’s.

Aziraphale gave him a polite, friendly smile, the sort he’d been practicing for centuries. Before anyone could prevent it, he reached out to Hastur as if for a handshake, clasping the demon’s hand with no little satisfaction.

“What the fuck?” yelped Crowley, recoiling in panic. Aziraphale paid him no heed.

“Duke Hastur, you said?” he asked, holding on tightly. It was agony. It burned. Though he looked down at his flesh and saw that it was untouched, his mind was screaming at him to let go. He did not. “I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced. I am the Principality Aziraphale. It’s a pleasure.”

Michael’s eyes narrowed. “Duke Hastur. You said this wouldn’t happen.”

“Wait,” said Hastur, his gaze whipping back and forth between them in growing panic. “They’ve swapped again, or something.” He tried to wrest his hand from Aziraphale’s grip, to no avail.

“Going so soon?” asked Aziraphale. He was quietly confident that the demon would not escape his grasp. It had been a long while ago, but once, God herself had trusted him to guard the Eastern Gate. He might not be quite so lean and mean as he used to be, but they didn’t give a job like that to lightweights.

Hastur snarled, and reached across their joined arms, lighting his other hand to fling a bolt of fire in Crowley’s direction. It sizzled and died against the front of his jacket. 

“Ow,” said Crowley, utterly deadpan, and followed it with one of his most feral grins. 

Hastur looked terrified, his boots sliding in the muddy ground as he still tried to pull away. With significant relief, Aziraphale decided it was probably safe to let go, and the Duke of Hell fell over at his feet, scrambling backwards through the puddles towards Michael. She sidestepped out of his path with a look of disgust, shaking her head.

“It can’t be,” pleaded Hastur, ink-black eyes wide as dinnerplates. “They swapped, it’s not possible, they can’t both be demons!”

“Oh, dear. I did give you a chance, Hastur. That’s what we agreed, isn’t it? One chance.” Michael lifted her face to the sky with beatific resignation and raised her hands. “Lord, bless this rain.”

There was a second before Hastur began shrieking, though his mouth was already beginning to melt out of shape where the raindrops fell against his skin. A sickly greenish flame, like burning fumes, flickered around his twisting, spasming figure as it liquified with alarming speed into black slush, and all the while he still screamed, though the sound became fainter and wetter as they watched. It looked nothing like a human death, or even a discorporation. 

Aziraphale could not help a cautious glance towards Crowley, who shrugged, and managed to make it look cool, even soaking wet. 

“I won’t lie, it stings a bit.”

“But this… that. Is that what usually happens?” asked Aziraphale in a whisper, indicating the writhing, formless pile slowly becoming an oil-slick puddle, and Crowley nodded, looking very grim.

“Yup,” he said. 

Tendrils of evil and suffering spread outwards from the demon’s remains like smoke across the mud, and from the other side of it Michael glared at them both. It was hard to tell through the veil of rainwater, but Aziraphale thought she looked just a little less smug than at first. 

“There goes that theory. I suspected as much, naturally, but it was worth a try. Very well then, we’ll have to do this the old-fashioned way after all, but don’t either of you imagine this is over.” She took a step backwards, and closed her eyes. “Not for a moment.”

“Michael, wait!” called Aziraphale. It made no difference. A shaft of white light surrounded the archangel, and she was lifted up in a cloud of radiance, vanishing in a moment. 

“Well,” said Crowley, still staring at the blackened spot where Hastur had been. There probably wouldn’t be any trees growing there in a hurry. “That happened.”

The last of the blessed rain reached the ground, and it transpired that underfoot holy water was just as muddy and miserable as the ordinary sort. Aziraphale regarded his ruined boots and shivered. He was cold, and wet, and thoroughly shaken. 

Crowley raised an eyebrow at Aziraphale, pushing a handful of damp hair out of his eyes. “Pub?” he asked.

“Pub,” agreed Aziraphale, with feeling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU HOOMHUM! :D


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Aziraphale blinked at her, the realisation sinking in. Anathema, Newton, and Adam all knew his true nature already. How lovely it might be to make a friend for life, he mused, to know a human through all their ages, to support and love them without hiding who he was. What a gift such a friendship would be. Quite unexpectedly, he found himself blinking back tears._

\---

Anathema and Newton came to meet them an hour or so later in Ye Olde Hoggye’s Backe to discuss what had happened, the situation having been broadly described by Crowley over his telephone. Any concerns about the Them returning to investigate the melted demonic remains of Hastur in the woods were assuaged by the news that all four had already repaired to Wensleydale’s house to play on an ex-box, which Crowley said was some sort of gaming device. That sounded safe enough for the present, especially given the increasing deluge outside.

Newton had insisted on a system he called “rounds”, with the result that he was attempting to cross the pub carrying a pint of lager, a white wine spritzer, and a third bottle of a very pleasant 2012 Rioja Reserva that had appeared on the wine list just as they entered the building. Aziraphale could see Crowley’s fingers itching to make the poor boy trip on the carpet.

He laid a hand on the demon’s arm. “Dearest,” he murmured quietly. Anathema was still talking.

“The trouble is I’m so goddamn busy,” she said, and grimaced. “I’m not going to bore you with details, but we had to scrap the Village Hall reception. Mr Tyler was being a giant ass about it after we cancelled the ceremony, but then I rang around and found a nice hotel near you guys that had a cancellation, so now it’s there instead and I have to talk to them about catering all over again.”

“You’ve been working jolly hard,” agreed Newton as he doled out the drinks. 

“And then my Mom found out this new place is a spa as well and booked me and Newton in for a couples’ treatment day, which is tomorrow, and then the day after I have a dress fitting, and Mom arrives on Thursday and everything gets even more crazy. Plus I’m having visions about once a week now, and I need to make sure I’m writing those down right.”

“A couples treatment?” asked Crowley, grinning wickedly. Newton was staring into his beer. 

“I don’t want to go,” he said miserably.

“I know, honey. It’s just massages and manicures, you’ll be okay.” Anathema patted his hand. 

“Sounds rather lovely,” ventured Aziraphale. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been for a manicure.

Newton looked up. This was their third “round”, and he was a smidgen glassy-eyed already, his mouth hanging open as if something amazing had just occurred to him.

“You could go instead of me,” he said, staring at Aziraphale.

Aziraphale laughed politely, then realised the young man didn’t appear to be joking.

“Please,” said Newton, with desperate hope.

“My dear fellow, I couldn’t possibly! I’m sure it’s meant to be romantic, isn’t it?”

“I think it’s more of a buy one, get one half-price. You could say you’re a friend. They do free champagne, Ana said so.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Crowley, and laid a possessive hand rather high up on Aziraphale’s thigh before he could speak again. “I’m not going, so he’s not going.”

Aziraphale sipped his wine, considering. “I’m not sure I quite follow.”

“I mean, I’m not letting you out of my sight, Angel.” 

It was a very sweet sentiment, but hardly realistic. Or entirely healthy. Aziraphale laid his own hand over Crowleys and spoke as gently as he could. “My dear, I am able to look after myself.” 

“Are you?” muttered Crowley. 

Aziraphale cleared his throat meaningfully. “I believe I handled Duke Hastur adequately.”

Crowley shuddered, and squirmed in his seat, grimacing, his shoulders rising ever higher as he spoke. “Look, it’s not just for you. I know Hell’s dealt with, but there’s still the other lot.”

“Is, um. Is Hell really dealt with, then?” asked Newton. He looked around the pub anxiously and whispered the word “Hell” as if afraid just saying it would summon something.

“Yeah, oh yeah,” said Crowley, sneering dismissively. “Don’t forget, the entire population’s only down there because they like causing trouble, the last thing Lord B wants is anyone getting ideas about defecting, or mutiny. Hastur wouldn’t have the imagination to lie. They want to forget I exist, and who knows, maybe they’ve got just enough sense to do it. Heaven’s the problem. Bunch of jobsworth dickheads. They’re not going to forget.”

“Yes, I suspect you’re right about that.” Aziraphale topped up his glass dolefully, finishing the bottle, and noticed that the humans were barely halfway down their own drinks. He should probably wait five minutes before suggesting another round. “Perhaps we should all go. The four of us. We could arrange that quite easily.”

Crowley’s lip curled in revulsion. “You don’t really want to? And get poked all over by humans?”

“They don’t poke you, Crowley. Well, I suppose an Acupuncturist might. But it’s nice! Don’t you recall going to the bath houses in old Turkey? A little pampering might be exactly what’s needed to refresh the old grey matter. A few new ideas on what exactly we ought to do next.” He couldn’t quite keep the wistfulness out of his tone.

“Oh, no no no. I know that look. This is just like the bloody crepes all over again.”

“It isn’t like the crepes at all! And frankly I don’t know why you have to keep bringing that up, it was ages ago and I did buy you lunch.”

“Not that anyone’s asked me yet, but I wouldn’t mind,” said Anathema, from behind her spritzer. She looked amused. “You’d need a swimsuit. There’s a jacuzzi and a sauna.” 

A jacuzzi! Aziraphale was aware he was pouting, and didn’t care. “Besides,” he said. “It’s tomorrow, and we already saw them off today. It isn’t as though they can come straight back down here and start smiting willy-nilly. Even if they expedite the application, the paperwork will still have to be processed. You know what Michael’s like.”

Crowley took another slug of his wine, growling, and leaned back in his chair, balancing it on two precarious legs as he regarded the anaglypta ceiling for a moment. He pointed at Newton with one finger of a hand that still held his almost-empty glass. 

“Fine, whatever,” he drawled. “Tell you what, you go get your nails did with Book Girl, and I’ll take this one out for drinks. Stag do.”

“Stag do?” asked Newton, going pale at the thought.

“It’s settled then,” Crowley announced, and slapped Newton’s shoulder. “It’ll be fun.”

\---

Neither Crowley nor Aziraphale felt particularly in the mood for sleep that night, or even for using their bed in the variety of other, new ways that they had recently been exploring. It was hard to find the mood after coming face-to-face with their old colleagues and new enemies. 

Instead, they sat in silence on the garden bench and shared a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape miracled out of some indifferent Cava, celebrating their escape from the day’s skirmish without much joy. The rain had stopped, but the cold, crisp scent of damp and night still hung upon the air, and the sky remained too clouded for even a single star to peep through it. There had been no sign of Anthony, and one could only assume the fox was too wise to leave his warm, dry burrow in such weather.

Aziraphale stifled a small burp, and sighed. “Am I being silly?”

“Nearly always,” said Crowley reflexively, then shook his head. “Nah, you’re probably right, we’ll have a day or two’s grace before they come back after us. The traditional way. Whatever that’s supposed to mean.”

“At a guess, flaming swords and the like, although I should think they’ll have a job manifesting those down here without anyone noticing. Hardly discreet.”

“Shame you handed yours back to the Delivery chap.”

“I couldn’t very well do otherwise, it was on his list.”

Crowley looked out across the soggy garden and smirked. “Just… gave it away,” he murmured under his breath, and Aziraphale elected not to rise to such obvious bait.

“I was pretty good at sword drills, once. Sparring and things of that sort. I enjoyed it,” he said, twiddling the ring on his little finger. It bore an emblem of wings and a crown, to represent the First Regiment of Principalities. Technically, Aziraphale had led a platoon before his reassignment to the garden, even if most of it had been paperwork. Heaven did love its paperwork. 

“You, sparring? Wish I’d seen that,” said Crowley, giving him a deliberately slow once-over, as if imagining it even now. Aziraphale could feel himself blushing, warm in the cold night.

“Less keen on the actual, you know. Smiting.”

“No,” agreed Crowley, serious once more. “Same here. Might have to get back into practice, though.”

Aziraphale huffed with frustration. Now Crowley was being silly. “Where on this plane would either of us lay hands on a celestial blade, Crowley? We can’t just march back into either of our old workplaces and borrow one. What do we do?”

Crowley chuckled, though without his sunglasses it was far easier to see that the humour didn’t quite reach his eyes. He reached over to lift Aziraphale’s hand and kissed it, just a brush of his lips over skin, sending a tingle right down to Aziraphale’s toes. “Get a manicure, I suppose. There are worse ideas.”

\---

The Governor’s Executive Hotel and Spa at Milton Lea was housed in a fine Georgian mansion that had been extended in recent years with a mostly sympathetic eye. According to a sign displayed in the reception area, the building was a replacement, the original 13th Century Governor’s House having stood atop a hill nearby. It had burned down at approximately the same time as old Agnes Nutter had met her own explosive end. The ballroom, where the wedding reception would be held, had been fully restored to what the display board breathlessly described as absolute period accuracy, although Aziraphale was pretty sure he could spot a few anachronisms. 

He wheeled the little tartan trolley containing his swimsuit and bathrobe over the elegant chequered floor, past several reproduction classical statues sadly scrubbed white as was the modern aesthetic. Anathema was waiting for him, taking tea beside an enormous marble fireplace, and looking quite as giddy with anticipation as he felt himself.

Anyone who hadn’t had the direct experience to compare from might have called the whole morning heavenly. There were manicures, facial treatments, a pause for wonderfully buttery scones with clotted cream and berry compote with tea, followed by joint back massages, during which Aziraphale and the two members of staff present politely ignored Anathema’s heavy snoring. It was small wonder she had fallen asleep, thought Aziraphale, who found that being softly caressed by a petite young woman wasn’t quite the same as the pummellings he remembered from strapping fellows back in Rome and Turkey. Still, he and Anathema took their luncheon smelling wonderfully fragrant and both as shiny and clean as new pins.

They were served a very adequate selection of fancy salads with a slightly disappointing prosecco, and for dessert Aziraphale found he couldn’t choose between the creme brulee and cardamom chocolate mousse. He ordered both.

“I have always found that a chef’s creme brulee is quite the surest indicator of their talent,” he told Anathema happily, tapping his way delicately through the caramel. “Not too much depth to the custard, and obviously no remaining granulation in the burnt sugar. A surprisingly tricky thing to get correct, one finds. This is very good, I must say.”

“Is that so,” said Anathema, smiling at him from across her teacup. Her hair was piled up on her head like a tall black haystack, and the floral robe she wore was the one Newton had borrowed that first day Aziraphale had called upon them both. It was very pretty. Belatedly Aziraphale realised that the shawl collar of his own dressing gown had become moth-eaten at the edges in the past century. It was no good, he would have to go shopping again at this rate.

The last scraps of custard dealt with, Aziraphale moved on to his chocolate mousse. “Oh, scrumptious. It all bodes very well for the wedding breakfast. I am so looking forward to your big day, my dear.”

“Are you?” asked Anathema. She put her tea down and looked at him with that disconcertingly sharp gaze of hers. “Why?”

“Well, because. I mean. It’s going to be lovely, isn’t it? A celebration of love!”

“Do you go to a lot of weddings?”

“Not previously, no,” admitted Aziraphale. 

“But you’re all about this one. I’m just curious.”

Aziraphale put the last spoonful of mousse in his mouth and realised with regret that he had eaten all his excuses to put off answering. He pushed the empty dish away. 

“I’m not wholly certain myself. At first I felt responsible, I think, for all that you and Newton, and Adam and the rest of them, went through, what with the Ineffable Incident.” He was still rather pleased with that name. “But now I suspect it’s more that that. I’m afraid I’m becoming rather fond of you all. Crowley and I did our best to save the world but in the end it was the rest of you who did most of the heavy lifting, as it were. I suppose I should just like us to be friends.”

“Okay,” said Anathema, looking sheepishly pleased. “I think I’d like that too. You probably guessed already, but I had kind of a weird childhood. I haven’t had many friends.”

“Nor have I! Or at least, not for long. People get suspicious after a few decades and you have to move, or redirect their attention. It’s a dreadful business. The last human I made real friends with was decades ago. She’d always wanted to go back to her childhood home in Malaysia, so I arranged for her to come into an inheritance and waved her off at the airport. It quite broke my heart.”

“I’m sorry. That’s a sweet gesture, though, you probably made her very happy.”

Aziraphale pleated his napkin distractedly. “She got trampled to death by an elephant two weeks later, as it happens. Tricky things, miracles.”

“Oh,” said Anathema, blinking rapidly. “Uh. Jacuzzi?”

\--

The jacuzzi was an excellent idea. Aziraphale had used the London Fields Lido regularly enough over the years to be well aware that his swimsuit, purchased in the 1920’s when they still covered one’s chest, was not quite the current style. It suited his purposes however, and he had always thought the dark blue shade adequately flattering. Ideally he would have preferred something lighter, but pale colours for gentlemen had not been readily available at the time. 

The water bubbled around them at a perfect temperature, scented heavily with lavender and chlorine, and Aziraphale wriggled himself comfortable on the low bench, stretching his arms out along the sides of the tub. They appeared to have the place to themselves, for now, and he permitted himself a miracle to ensure it stayed that way.

“I understand your mother will be arriving from the United States soon?” he asked, and Anathema laughed.

“Yeah! That’s weird, too. When I said goodbye to her I thought that was it, that we’d never meet again. Agnes never said anything about it.”

“Must be very odd, yes.” Aziraphale chose his words carefully. He had known several prophets in his time, and rarely found their gifts led to happiness. “I wonder how you feel about having visions of your own?”

Anathema chewed her lip. “Well, you didn’t see me straight afterwards. I was a real mess, God. I’d never not known what was coming, and Newton was so good to me, he was just the best, poor guy. And then, just as I started getting used to it, the emptiness of it, I started having these little flashes. Little images that came to me.”

“I see. And would you say was that disconcerting, or did it help?”

“I think it helped. I didn’t like not knowing, but I was pretty much done with being told what to do, so this is a good compromise. And, I don’t know. It feels like a purpose.”

That was immeasurably good to hear, and Aziraphale sighed with genuine relief. It struck him as an excellent view to take on the matter and Anathema seemed to mean it sincerely. He liked her very much, her fleeting smiles and awkward limbs, long and gangling like all his favourite people, her determination and kindness. A purpose, indeed. They should all be so lucky. 

“And you?” she asked, perspicacious as ever, winding a long dark strand of hair back into the clip atop her head. “I know we haven’t talked about it yet today but we probably should. Heaven isn’t happy with you two, am I right?”

The Hotel’s pool and jacuzzi were housed in an extension to the main house, with a wall of full height windows that overlooked the gardens and the hill where the old house had stood. The interior was white, and tiled, and for just a moment Aziraphale felt a shiver of discomfort at the echo of his old Head Office.

“Not terribly,” he said. “I haven’t thought about it much, I’m afraid. Crowley and I danced around one another for so long, all I really want is for us to be left alone. To be allowed to love one another, at last. But I don’t suppose they shall let us.”

Anathema flicked water at him. “Screw that noise. I’m not going to let them mess with you.”

“That’s rather more our job, dear girl,” said Aziraphale, charmed by her confidence. “We protect you.”

“Not any more. This is how friends works, Aziraphale. We’ve got each other’s backs from now on. No flights to Malaysia, no ducking out after 20 years.”

Aziraphale blinked at her, the realisation sinking in. Anathema, Newton, and Adam all knew his true nature already. How lovely it might be to make a friend for life, he mused, to know a human through all their ages, to support and love them without hiding who he was. What a gift such a friendship would be. Quite unexpectedly, he found himself blinking back tears.

Anathema was smiling at him again. She took a breath, as if summoning courage to say something else. 

“Well, if you’re going to cry anyway, there’s another thing I wanted to talk about. In about 2 years Newton and I are going to have a baby girl, and I was going to ask you and Crowley to be godparents.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Aziraphale, pressing a hand to his heart, utterly overwhelmed. “Oh, but my dear, I should warn you, we didn’t do a very good job last time we tried it, are you quite sure?”

“I’m absolutely sure,” she promised. “It’s more like a long-term investment for the family, trust me. You’ll do it, right?”

“Of course I will, and I’m sure Crowley would be delighted too. How wonderful, Anathema, how simply wonderful! Could you fancy another glass of champagne, to celebrate?”

“Oh, uh, I think we only get one included,” said Anathema. “And we’re not allowed glass on the poolside.”

Aziraphale waved a hand. “That doesn’t sound right to me. Look, here they come.”

From around the corner, a confused-looking member of the Hotel’s staff emerged carrying a tray with two tall fizzing glasses and a small crystal bowl of sugared strawberries. Aziraphale looked at Anathema, and winked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to hoomhum for the beta and the cheerleading, I am forever indebted! <3


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _...there, illuminated in the hallway, was Crowley, his hair loose and glasses askew, attempting to hold up an extremely inebriated Newton Pulsifer. _
> 
> _“First of all,” said Crowley, slurring slightly. “This is not my fault.”_

\---

“We’re home!” called Anathema, giggling as she stumbled through the front door two hours or so later than planned.

It was early evening, but already almost dark outside, and the warm, dimly-lit cottage was delightfully cosy. Aziraphale lowered himself carefully into one of the sitting room’s treacherous armchairs, and discovered a note on the coffee table.

“It appears they’ve gone out already,” he called, reading it. “Oh, bugger. I should have asked our cab to wait for me. Goodness knows what time Crowley will be back.”

“Already?” Anathema was in the kitchen, clattering mugs and kettles about. “Damn! I can call you another taxi, but I think I need tea first. That was kind of more booze than I’m used to.”

“You barely had any,” protested Aziraphale. 

“Not compared to you. But I had a super good time!”

“It was nice, wasn’t it? Can’t imagine why young Newton didn’t want to go. Didn’t you say he was looking into it as a change of career?”

“Oh, god, I never told you!” Anathema leaned back into the sitting room, holding herself up against the doorframe and laughing so hard she made a peculiar snorting noise. “They had it all arranged, and then Marjorie said he could practice on Mungo! You should’ve seen Newt’s face!” 

“Who?”

“Sargent Shadwell! Him and Marjorie… oh, that’s Madame Tracy, sorry. Her name’s Marjorie Potts when she’s not, you know, working. They moved in together, it’s so cute! You’ll see them at the wedding!”

“Mungo Shadwell,” repeated Aziraphale, who had never before thought of the Sergeant as even possessing a first name. The consequent mental image of the man lying naked and oiled on a massage table made him shudder. He could quite see Newton’s point. 

“You know,” said Anathema, heading back to the kitchen as the kettle began to whistle. “Marjorie still thinks it was her who stopped you shooting Adam that day.”

Sinking slowly backwards, Aziraphale chuckled to himself. The armchair was surprisingly comfortable once you gave in to it. “I never told Sargeant Shadwell he couldn’t exorcise Demons with his index finger, either. I don’t think it’s done any harm. Quite an ego-boost, I should imagine.”

“That she could overpower your Angelic possession? I mean, yeah, I guess…”

Aziraphale yawned, feeling wonderfully relaxed and practically lying down by now. In the kitchen, Anathema was cursing softly, wrangling her tea with more apparent difficulty than usual. She had had a nice snooze on the massage tables, but Aziraphale hadn’t really slept for a few days now, and it seemed such an activity was, well, habit-forming. It wouldn’t hurt to just rest his eyes for a moment.

\---

He woke again to a loud crash and a thoroughly unpleasant taste in his mouth. He absolutely had to stop falling asleep drunk, Aziraphale thought crossly, and staggered to his feet, almost tripping over a blanket that had been laid over him at some point. The house was pitch dark, and he pulled down a quick miracle to see where he was going.

“Let there be light!” he said, and there, illuminated in the hallway, was Crowley, his hair loose and glasses askew, attempting to hold up an extremely inebriated Newton Pulsifer. 

“First of all,” said Crowley, slurring slightly. “This is not my fault.”

“Oh, no,” groaned Aziraphale, as Anathema appeared on the stairs wrapped in her robe, her hair lying over one shoulder in a thick braid and a hand to her head as if it hurt. She looked paler than she had the day before. 

“Newton! What the hell?”

“He needs coffee,” said Crowley firmly. “See? I’m helping.”

Blearily, Newton lifted his head. His glasses were nowhere to be seen and he scrunched up his face, squinting in Anathema’s general direction. “H’lo, Ana. I love you.”

“Get him in the kitchen,” she snapped. Aziraphale hurried forward to help. 

He grabbed Newton like the sack of potatoes he resembled more closely than a human in his current state, and lifted him bodily. It wasn’t as though he weighed much, and it was more trouble to try and wedge him properly into a chair before he slid to the floor, apparently boneless as blancmange. He tried a few times to balance the boy’s head on one arm, before giving it up for a bad job and letting him lie face-down on the table. 

Behind him, Crowley was sniggering, and Aziraphale rounded upon him in fury.

“What have you done? Can’t you sober him up?”

Crowley shook his head cheerfully, and his sunglasses wobbled loose at last and caught in his hair. It took him several attempts to detangle them. “S’a good question. I mean, can I? Never done it to a human. Might accidentally pull all the blood out of him. You can try, if you like.” 

“At the very least sober yourself up. Honestly, Crowley, what were you thinking?”

“Listen.” Crowley replaced the glasses on his face and waggled a finger under Aziraphale’s nose, the raw alcohol on his breath truly eye-watering. “I didn’t pour them down his throat. Not my fault he’s a human. Bit delicate, humans. Might’ve forgotten how much.”

“You could have poisoned him,” said Aziraphale, wringing his hands. “What if you’ve done permanent damage?”

“He’s fiiine!” insisted Crowley, drawing out the long vowel. 

Suddenly, Newton straightened bolt upright in his chair, his gaze remarkably focussed. “M’go be shick.”

Aziraphale miracled a bucket into the fellow’s lap, and it was noisily half-filled almost instantly. 

The smell was appalling. Aziraphale glowered at Crowley, who pulled a face of theatrical disgust and disappeared the bucket and its contents as miraculously as it had arrived.

“Thanks,” croaked Newton. He blinked at the mug of black coffee Ana pushed towards him and lifted it cautiously in both hands to take a sip, still swaying in his chair. She reached to stroke his hair, then looked up towards Crowley with a cold rage that made even Aziraphale quail somewhat.

“What the _hell_,” she said again.

“Stag do!” protested Crowley, looking hunted. “Bachelor party, whatever. Demon!”

“I trusted you!”

“There was your first mistake,” said Crowley, running a hand through his hair uncomfortably. “It’s traditional, anyway. He’ll be fine.”

“Ana,” said Newton, putting down his mug with elaborate care and blinking in her broad direction. “D’you ash th’Angel ‘bout the thing?”

It sounded like a fine change of subject, and Aziraphale seized upon it. “Oh, yes!” he said, quite truthfully. “I’m absolutely delighted, I couldn’t be more pleased for you both.”

Newton swung back to face him, lurching dangerously in his chair. His mouth hung open, and he appeared to be having trouble forming words. 

“But… we burnt it. Thorr’ you’d be bit upshet.”

“Here we go,” muttered Crowley. If Aziraphale had been paying better attention, he might have noticed the words sounded almost regretful.

“Holy shit, is that the time? Wow, you guys should probably be getting back,” said Anathema, suddenly far too loud in the quiet cottage. “I’ve got to, I’ve got stuff, in the morning, and you know, I’ll be honest with you, I’ve got a real headache, I need to sleep. Like now. You probably do too, and I know Newton does.”

“You just gave him coffee,” said Crowley, almost too quietly to be heard. He was hanging back again, arms folded, slouching, still as a shadow in the corner of the room.

“Burned what?” asked Aziraphale. He had thought they were talking about being godfathers.

“The nexsht book of Agnush’s profiss… the proffess… the vishuns,” said Newton innocently, and everything seemed to stop.

The kitchen lightbulb buzzed very quietly, illuminating every stricken face against the darkness that crowded up to the windows. Newton was still wobbling a bit, and he had gone rather green, as if he might be sick again. Crowley’s expression was complex, half-hidden by his sunglasses, but his eyebrows frowned even as his mouth looked oddly vulnerable. Anathema stood beside the sink, clutching her mug with white knuckles, and looking over at Aziraphale utterly distraught.

“A second book?” said Aziraphale faintly, and sat down rather quicker than he had meant to.

Anathema bit her lip. “I was going to tell you.” 

“Sorry.” Newton’s eyes crossed, and he belched impressively. “H’ve I fuck up again?”

“Tell him the rest of it,” said Crowley, louder this time. 

Aziraphale couldn’t focus. He stared at the tabletop, noting with interest the precise grain of the wood. Oak, he thought. Nothing particularly fancy, quite a knotted piece in fact, but very sturdy and serviceable. A good choice for a table. Anathema had burned a unique 16th Century manuscript from the only entirely accurate prophet the world had ever known.

He glanced down at the arm of his chair. That was probably oak too, although it seemed like a better quality of wood than the table. They had had such a nice day, too.

“Aziraphale?” asked Crowley, from very close to his face. Something damp and cold was pressed to his forehead for a moment and it felt lovely. “You with us?”

“Burned?” he asked, just in case he had misheard. He blinked a few times, and there was Crowley, looking up at him. He was kneeling in front of Aziraphale’s chair, sunglasses pushed back into his lovely hair and that little crease between his eyebrows that meant he was worried. 

“Not really,” said Crowley, “It’s all right. Newton told me all about it. Can you listen?”

“Of course!” Aziraphale smiled as best he could, quite prepared to listen to anything Crowley said. A whole book of prophecies, all gone.

“Um,” said Newton. Glancing over, Aziraphale saw him, his arm around Anathema, whose nose was red and her eyes wet. “Whuh. Not sure m’shober enough for this.”

“I didn’t want to be a descendent for the rest of my life! I wanted to be me!” she sobbed.

“Tell him,” snarled Crowley, glaring at Newton.

Newton had pulled out a wireless telephone of his own and was fumbling with it. “It wash, here, I’ve go’ it here, wus blank! Nothin’ in it!”

Anathema recoiled from his arms. “Wait, what the fuck? You read it?”

“Jus’ to check! I ush jush checking! Wush only one page!”

Anathema grabbed the phone from his hand and stared at the screen for a moment before dropping it as if it had shocked her. She lifted a hand to her mouth, rising from her chair with such sudden force it clattered onto the floor, and backed away from the table. “Oh my God.”

“Blank?” asked Aziraphale, who had apparently taken to using single words as sentences. Crowley reached over with one long arm and took the phone, holding the screen up for Aziraphale to see.

It looked like a colour photograph of some scratchy quill writing on vellum, faded with time but still legible.

“Alas my booke is writ and myne visyons now growe darke. Henceforth I pass thysse byrdensome gyfte unto myne great-childe Anathema, being the Seconde True Witch of swich inherytance, with these pages, that she may fille themme with what ys yette to come. And for thy parte, bold Peeping Cockalorum, see that thou meddlest no further in thynges ye wot notte of, but set thyself as the stronge stayke that lifteth the budding vyne to bear sweet fruits, and know thy parte for no more.”

Aziraphale read it aloud, the ancient cadence of the words a sweet nostalgia of its own, and the relief they contained crashed over him like a wave.

“Oh,” he said, and turned to Crowley. “Oh.”

“It’s all fine, Angel, see? You don’t need to worry.” Crowley’s smile was tentative in a way Aziraphale had not seen before, and it pierced his heart rather. He leaned forward to kiss the furrowed brow.

“I suppose it is, darling. Blank, after all that. Although the paper itself is a loss, if we’re being quite honest here. Decent 16th Century vellum, after all, I should’ve liked to have seen it.”

“You read it,” wailed Anathema, from across the table, rebuffing all Newton’s attempts to embrace her once more, batting him away like an angry child fending off a puppy. “You didn’t tell me, you horrible shithead.”

“I jusht peeked,” sniffled Newton, whose crying was a good deal uglier than his wife’s. “Jus’ a little peek! Oh god, I’m sorry, I’m the worst!”

“Come on. They can sort that out between them,” said Crowley, drawing Aziraphale to his feet. He allowed himself to be steered, feeling rather too off-kilter to resist.

“Shouldn’t we help?”

“Nah. Best they deal with it themselves, before the wedding, eh? Strengthen the relationship.” Crowley was ushering him out of the door with some speed, his grip on Aziraphale’s shoulder tighter than necessary.

The stars were out, the sky entirely dark, and the night air bracingly cold. In the east, the pale pinkish glow of dawn had begun to edge the hills. It was hard to reconcile the sweet, lovely Anathema Aziraphale knew with a callous destroyer of ancient books. She hadn’t known the pages were blank. Humans could be so cavalier with knowledge, learning and losing so much over and over again across the centuries. It was quite beyond comprehension.

They were almost at the Bentley when he had another thought.

“Are you sober yet?”

Crowley looked at him, one eyebrow raised. “After all that? Didn’t even take a miracle.”

“Crowley!”

“Alright, yes, fine, I did the miracle anyway. I’m sober. Get in the car, Angel. We’re going home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Hoomhum for beta-ing their way through this. :D


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It had somehow never occurred to him that Crowley shopped for clothing, although it transpired he rarely bought any, simply took notes and miracled together his own version. However, the reclassification of High Fashion as a form of High Art was largely of his demonic doing, and given the sheer quantities of breathtaking beauty and equally breathtaking waste, exploitation and general horror it produced, Aziraphale rather wondered how he hadn’t realised it sooner._

\---

The drive home was a quiet one. Crowley didn’t speak until they were back indoors. 

“I’m going to bed.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, hesitating a moment too long. “Should I join you?”

There was no response except the sound of the bedroom door squeaking closed. It would be morning soon, at any rate. Not really much point to joining Crowley at all.

Aziraphale was already climbing the stairs before he had even thought about it, undoing his tie and waistcoat as he went. He hung his clothes neatly in the wardrobe and glanced over towards the lump under the covers, so curled up and hidden that he was unable to tell whether Crowley was wearing anything himself. It seemed safest to leave on his underdrawers, at least, so he climbed quietly into bed, and reached out.

His hand touched cool, slippery black silk pyjamas. “Crowley?” he asked.

He was about to speak again, unsure if he had been heard, when without a word Crowley rolled over, winding himself around Aziraphale entirely, his head tucked down against Aziraphale’s chest and his face still concealed beneath the covers. Aziraphale gently moved the associated swathes of ginger hair out of his nose and mouth, stroking down the length as if petting a temperamental animal. 

“I’m sorry your evening with Newton went badly,” he said, wondering what exactly this mood was.

“Badly? Textbook, more like.” Crowley’s voice was muffled by the blanket, but he sounded irritable. “He’ll be suffering for days.”

“Oh, you fiend,” scolded Aziraphale, though he couldn’t summon much real anger. “Ana and I had a delightful time at the spa, you know. The creme brulee was particularly good. But most of all, I think, it was the company. It was so refreshing to talk to someone for once without having to pretend to be human. Such a pleasure.”

He tried to keep his mind on that thought, how delightful the conversation had been, and not the revelations that had come afterwards. As he spoke, Crowley’s head lifted just enough for Aziraphale to see his eyes and furiously frowning eyebrows. 

“Someone new, I mean, dearest,” added Aziraphale hastily, keen to avoid any further upset. “Obviously you and I know what we are, and I should hope you’re well aware there’s nobody I’d rather talk to, but what I mean is that the change was refreshing. Isn’t it nice, Crowley? To be able to be our real selves?”

Perhaps it worked. It was hard to tell. Certainly the frown melted away, and Crowley shut his eyes, burrowing deeper into the covers, but he didn’t speak. He shifted again until one hand rested over Aziraphale’s heart, and lay very quiet and still until morning.

\---

“Off out, back late,” announced Crowley, swinging the Bentley’s car keys on one finger as he passed the kitchen table.

“Oh, wait! Where to? May I join you? Will there be, um, a Marks and Spencers shop?” 

Aziraphale had been planning a more sedentary day, something involving mostly books and cocoa, but he wasn’t about to let Crowley run off. There was clearly something bothering the fellow. It wouldn’t hurt, either, to take his own mind off the thought of Anathema’s book burning secrets.

Crowley stopped dead, mid-stride, and swivelled to face Aziraphale as if he thought he had misheard. “A Marks and Spencers?” 

“You needn’t be like that. I thought I might pick up a few items of clothing, that’s all.”

There was no other word for it, Crowley was boggling. “Shopping? Twice in one century? Who are you and what have you done with Aziraphale?”

“In case you’ve forgotten, we are shortly to be attending a wedding,” said Aziraphale, rising to his feet indignantly. “And quite frankly, I have standards.”

Crowley sneered. “Standards,” he repeated mockingly. “I’ll show you standards. Fine, come on.” 

Aziraphale drained his mug with more speed than he would have liked, and seized his coat.

\---

The Bentley’s motor purred along the winding roads, leaving the village of Milton far behind. It was a grey, soggy sort of day, overcast and damp even without actual rain.

“Where are we going?” asked Aziraphale.

“London.”

“How nice! I could look in on the bookshop! Although perhaps that wouldn’t be very safe.”

“No more or less than anywhere else.” 

Crowley reached across him, fumbling in the glove compartment for a musical Compact Disc and manhandling it with practised ease into the player. The soft sound of Chopin’s first piano concerto filled the vehicle.

“This isn’t The Queen at all.” Not that Aziraphale minded their music these days. Once one became accustomed to it, it was jolly stirring stuff. 

“Just Queen, Angel, not The Queen. Got it in the village charity shop last week,” explained Crowley, as the country lanes began to give way to wider roads and more traffic. “Shoplifted, obviously.”

“From a charity shop?” Aziraphale couldn’t hide his dismay, and didn’t try to.

“I’m a demon,” said Crowley, as if to a particularly dim child. 

“Even so, you didn’t have to do that.”

“Evil isn’t something I do, Aziraphale, it’s something I am. I’m a demon. That’s what it means.”

The thought was so absurd Aziraphale almost laughed. “What rot you do talk sometimes. If we’ve discovered nothing else in our time on this Earth, surely it’s that you are no more irredeemable than I’m incorruptible.”

“Irredeemable is exactly what I am!” Crowley pulled out sharply in front of a large lorry, whose horn blared over the music. “You don’t get it, Angel, falling changed me. I’m just… I’ve let myself get out of practice, but I can’t just stop being what I am.”

Aziraphale looked out of the windscreen at the grey road ahead of them, the cars on either side all streaming along the motorway in the same direction. He was beginning to have an inkling of where Crowley’s dark mood was coming from. “I thought you told me you didn’t want to be a demon.”

Crowley groused at the windscreen. It was notably unthreatening. “It’s not about what I want.”

“But it is!” persisted Aziraphale. “Hell isn’t watching you, not any more. Not to mention, you’ve been doing blessings for at least the last thousand years, and I suspect rather longer before that. You can do as many as you like, now.”

“But why?” Crowley let go of the steering wheel entirely and flung his hands in the air. “What for? Who for? What’s the point, if it’s not getting one over on Heaven? That’s a hell of a habit to break after six millenia. I’m supposed to, what, turn my back on everything I’ve ever done? It’s all well and good for you, Saint Aziraphale of Tadfield’s waifs and strays, but what am I supposed to be doing here? If I’m not a demon, what am I?”

“Good question, yes, can’t answer that,” agreed Aziraphale soothingly, hoping that Crowley would start steering again soon. The road was wet and the threat of permanent discorporation loomed unpleasantly. “But I do know there must be options other than demon or angel. Or aardvark.”

Crowley barked out a laugh. To Aziraphale’s relief, he gripped the wheel once more, his shoulders dropping as some of his tension released. Ranting seemed to have helped. “Rome. Those bloody oysters.”

“Ooh, speaking of food, perhaps we should have lunch at the Ritz, since we’ll be in London anyway?”

“Already arranged,” said Crowley, accepting the change of subject. “Clothes first. I’m thinking Burberry, you’ll like it. One condition though.”

The name sounded vaguely familiar. “Not Thomas Burberry, the fellow from Basingstoke who made mackintoshes? Is he still in business? Well, it’ll be his grandson or great-grandson by now, I suppose. What’s the condition?”

“No tartan. I love you, and I can’t let you wear Burberry check.”

“Crowley, my dear, I love you too. Don’t worry, I shan’t be tempted. I only ever wear my regimental tartan.”

“Is it regimental?” asked Crowley in surprise. “I never knew that.”

He pulled up on a corner of Regent Street in front of an enormous white building that took up most of the block, with huge windows and wrought iron balconies, and threw the Bentley into park across the double yellow lines of the road. A doorman held the door for them both, and Aziraphale followed Crowley inside.

\---

Aziraphale’s eyes had been opened. 

It had somehow never occurred to him that Crowley shopped for clothing, although it transpired he rarely bought any, simply took notes and miracled together his own version. However, the reclassification of High Fashion as a form of High Art was largely of his demonic doing, and given the sheer quantities of breathtaking beauty and equally breathtaking waste, exploitation and general horror it produced, Aziraphale rather wondered how he hadn’t realised it sooner.

“Humans took it a bit far, but they always do,” said Crowley grudgingly, flicking through a rail of things that were probably shirts. 

Behind him, a television screen the size of a small cinema played artistic images of young adults looking bored in pretty clothes. Architecturally, the building had approximately the size and grandeur of a cathedral, with wide spiraling staircases and polished hardwood floors, and though it might be entirely devoted to Mammon, it was undeniably beautiful. All in all, it was a very long way from mackintoshes in Basingstoke.

“Why does this one have transparent stripes?” asked Aziraphale, holding up an otherwise exquisitely made black shirt. 

“Let’s have a look,” said Crowley, taking it from him. He eyed the garment with guarded approval. “That’s not bad. Yes. Not so much your thing, though.”

Aziraphale, who had been nervously hoping he would not be asked to try it on, found himself suddenly viewing it in a different light. Crowley was such a lovely, sinuous shape, and the juxtaposition of formal clothing and glimpses of skin might actually be rather exciting on someone like him. 

“Here,” said Crowley, who had been collecting items seeming at random as they browsed the rails. He thrust the pile into Aziraphale’s arms and pointed him towards one of the cavernous changing rooms. “Try those.”

With rapidly fading enthusiasm, Aziraphale did so. First up was a chestnut-coloured suit, not so different from the shades he usually wore, only darker and earthier, which he could definitely get accustomed to. It flattered his skin tone nicely, and set off his yellow waistcoat very well. It was made from some sort of soft cashmere mix, just a little bit fuzzy, and lined with silk. 

He emerged from the changing room quietly, and saw Crowley’s face fall faster than he could conceal the expression.

“It’s the gut, isn’t it.” Aziraphale attempted once again to hoist the trousers about his waist. It had been a struggle to even pull them past his thighs, so slenderly were they made, and the jacket, though it buttoned up, hung off him as if he had borrowed it from a giant. 

“The cut?” said Crowley, as if echoing him. “Yeah, it’s not working, is it. Okay.”

“I so wish I’d thought to contact that nice young man in Brighton sooner,” sighed Aziraphale, shuffling back into the room. Crowley followed, closing the door behind them.

“Let me,” he murmured, running a hand over Aziraphale’s back, between his shoulders. 

Under his touch, the jacket contracted, moulding perfectly to Aziraphale’s shape. Gently, Crowley turned him around, his fingers sliding over the lapels, broadening them just slightly until they were more like Aziraphale’s favourite coat. Bending down, he touched Aziraphale’s knee and slid his fingertips upwards along his thigh, all strain in the fabric disappearing as he did so. 

For a moment, at least. Crowley’s hands were almost as exciting through clothes as without them, and Aziraphale found himself growing increasingly aroused beneath such ministrations.

“All fixed. Not the same as making them the human way, but not a bad compromise, eh? Thought it’d help to start with the best ingredients. Like you with your baking.”

“Of course, yes,” agreed Aziraphale, turning back to the wall-length mirror before Crowley could spot the state he was in. That was a mistake, of course. He saw the delight on Crowley’s face at once as he spotted the bulge in Aziraphale’s trousers, now perfectly tailored to flatter his solid frame. “Just a shame about the cake tin.”

Crowley’s hands were already sliding under the jacket, around his waist and towards the zippered fly, when he stopped, confused. “What do you mean, the cake tin?”

Swallowing hard, Aziraphale shrugged a shoulder. “My shape. It’s comfortable for me, and I’ve always liked it, but it isn’t what’s considered desirable these days, I know. Gabriel did say I should lose the gut.”

Suddenly, Crowley’s expression over his shoulder took on a very predatory air, his sunglasses sliding down his nose to reveal entirely yellow eyes that roamed Aziraphale’s reflection, his neck a little more mobile than usual, as if determining the point at which to strike.

“You lissten to me. Don’t you dare change, not for anyone, especially not that prick. You know how many sscenturies I’ve been dreaming about this arse?” 

He reached down to grasp possessively at the body part in question, and Aziraphale gasped, faintly scandalised despite himself. They were practically in public, and Crowley was getting carried away with his sibilants again.

“It’ss perfect,” he hissed, his tongue flicking over the tip of Aziraphale’s ear. “You could lie face-down, naked, and just read your biggest book ten thousand times over and I still wouldn’t be bored of looking at this arse. I’d love you in any shape, don’t get me wrong, but I’ve waited so long for this one. Don’t take it away from me yet.”

“Oh, dearest Crowley,” sighed Aziraphale, leaning back into him. He tilted his head as Crowley kissed his neck, biting down on the skin then licking over it. “We mustn’t, the shop staff will get suspicious.”

“Not if they know what’s good for them,” muttered Crowley, reaching for the fastening of Aziraphale’s trousers once more.

“Absolutely not! I haven’t even paid for these yet!” 

“Angel. Have mercy.”

Aziraphale caught Crowley’s hands, and nodded towards the pile of things still awaiting trial. “Later, darling. Please? I need you to help me with all these.”

Crowley groaned, and reluctantly allowed himself to be peeled away. 

“Fine,” he growled, folding his arms and propping himself over in a corner of the closed room, well out of reach. “That’s fine, you just keep taking your clothes off and trying on sexy new outfits, means nothing to me. Celestial virtue, my arse. Or your arse, I should say. Bastard.”

“You old silly,” giggled Aziraphale, blushing to the roots of his hair. He reached for a cardigan and some pale corduroy trousers to try, almost eager to put them on. 

He still needed to cheer Crowley up properly at some point, but the day was looking more promising already.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Hoomhum for beta-ing and encouragement!! <3


	20. Chapter 20 (EXPLICIT)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"...We have to have sex on this sofa. I’ve fantasised about it for decades, Angel, it’s important.”_
> 
> _Aziraphale blinked at him in shock. “Excuse me?”_
> 
> _Crowley put his head on one side, his eyes wide and sincere. “It’s only proper."_

\---

There were an awful lot of lovely clothes in the peculiar shop once a few miraculous tweaks were performed here and there. Crowley insisted on paying, as ever, as if that made any difference. There were other shops, too, several of them, and a series of delightfully chipper young shop assistants helped load bags upon bags into the Bentley, including one which Aziraphale carefully ensured Crowley had not seen. By the time they reached the Ritz Aziraphale was ravenous.

“Probably on commission,” said Crowley over lunch, which was reliably scrumptious. “Do you still want to check in on the bookshop?” 

“If you wouldn’t mind?”

Crowley never did mind, and it wasn’t far away, especially the way he drove. 

Dust spiralled lazily through the dingy interior of the neglected shop, settling on the tomes and scrolls and ornaments Aziraphale had accumulated over the centuries, the most recent few spent mostly in this very building. Never before the bookshop had he settled so long in one place. It felt uncomfortably disloyal to realise he had barely missed it at all.

It was the place where he had finally begun to draw inwards, away from the world, shutting out all but the most persistent customers. The place where he and Crowley had begun to see one another more regularly, and the anxious realisation that Heaven was not all he had always believed it to be became harder and harder to resist. The best of times and the worst of times, thought Aziraphale, borrowing a phrase. 

There were more gaps in the shelves than he had anticipated, since whenever he was at the cottage and wanted something from the shop, he simply summoned it with a miracle, and though the place remained easily more than half full, he turned over a few volumes and found almost none of the titles excited him particularly.

It was a museum, not a home.

“There’s bugger all in here,” called Crowley from the back room. He emerged carrying a bottle of wine and two glasses, swaggering to his usual seat on the ancient sofa. “Had to miracle this over from my place.” 

Slowly Aziraphale walked through the shop, circling around each shelf, committing it to memory as much as he could. 

He picked up a volume discussing forms of love in ancient Greece, and idly flicked through to those that he could now attribute to himself and Crowley, where he had never dared before.   
There was Agape, love for all, of course, by the simple fact of his angelic nature, and Philautia, self-love, as he began to accept that although he might not be entirely like other angels, he was still worthwhile for all that. He hoped that one was true for Crowley, as well.

Next was Philia, the deep friendship of equals, and after all their centuries of dancing about one another, one could probably include Ludus, playful love. But now, for the first time, he could add Eros, for sexual and romantic love.

He looked over the initials of his list, and chuckled. 

“What’s funny?” asked Crowley. “Am I drinking all this by myself?”

Towards the back of the shop Aziraphale found what he was looking for: a first edition of “Paradise Lost” with the 1667 title page and original binding, and tucked it under his arm. It had seemed a little too pointed to bring to their cottage until now. 

“Yes,” he murmured. “I think that will do.” 

Aziraphale walked to the back room at last and settled himself into the limited space left at the other end of the sofa. The familiar armchair and the desk that it had once stood beside had long since moved to the snug of their cottage. He set down the book by his feet and picked up the wine that had been poured for him, inhaling the rich scent deeply before he took a sip. It was red, of course, since it was Crowley’s, and he kept little else.

“What are you doing, Angel?” asked Crowley, eyeing him with suspicion.

“Saying farewell, I think. I don’t see that I shall come back here, and I may as well donate the rest to the British Library as job lot and sell the building. I’ve had any number of offers to take it off my hands, I can tell you.”

Crowley spat his mouthful of wine across the room. 

“You what?” he yelped, pressing back against the arm of the sofa as if trying to escape some monster. “Are you serious?”

“Oh, really, my dear. Am I so set in my ways as all that?” 

“Maybe I am,” said Crowley, half to himself. He set his wine down on the floor and followed it with his sunglasses, shaking his head. “Wait, though, if you’re going to sell up, there’s something we have to do first. We have to have sex on this sofa. I’ve fantasised about it for decades, Angel, it’s important.”

Aziraphale blinked at him in shock. “Excuse me?”

Crowley put his head on one side, his eyes wide and sincere. “It’s only proper. Ought to bid the old girl a decent farewell, don’t you think?”

“Decent,” scoffed Aziraphale, though it was an appealing enough thought now he came to consider it. They hadn’t tried doing it outside their own bedroom, yet, and there was never any time like the present. He set down his drink and clicked his fingers to close the blinds.

As Crowley reached forward to tug at the end of his bowtie, Aziraphale remembered something he’d noticed earlier that day. “Not many bowties in those shops. Do you think I should give them up?”

“Shut up, I like them on you. Like you’re a present wrapped up just for me.”

“Oh,” sighed Aziraphale, as the tie came undone and was cast aside.

“And this bit,” said Crowley, unbuttoning the collar of Aziraphale’s shirt and pressing a kiss to his revealed throat. It tingled, the love between them warm on Aziraphale’s skin with each touch. “I like this bit. It’s always covered up now, and only I get to see it.”

His hands were making short work of the rest of Aziraphale’s buttons, shirt and waistcoat, and with a snap of his fingers he simply miracled the singlet beneath them out of existence. Before Aziraphale could protest, Crowley was talking again, his voice low, just a few words between each kiss.

“Here, though, I like this bit too,” he said, kissing the golden mark on Aziraphale’s chest, nosing through the pale curls, leaving a trail of love behind at each point of contact so that it snaked over Aziraphale’s skin, wakening each nerve just a little more. 

“And these, they’re so pink, did you know yours are really pink?” Crowley’s tongue had split at the end, and the two tips slid around Aziraphale’s nipple, making him gasp as it stiffened. Crowley rubbed his face against Aziraphale’s cushioned ribs, like a cat marking something for its own. “And this bit, this muscle under the softness, I like how solid you are. I bet you could hold me down if you had to.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” said Aziraphale breathlessly. Such wanton adoration was making him feel quite weak. He dug his fingers into thick curls of red hair to anchor himself, afraid he might float away from the wonder of watching Crowley’s lovely mouth make its way across his body with slow care.

“I love this bit,” said Crowley again, splaying his long, fine hands across both sides of Aziraphale’s stomach. He squeezed gently, a tension to his fingers as if he was resisting the urge to do it harder, and moved down to unfasten Aziraphale’s uncomfortably tight trousers. 

“And I definitely love this bit,” he purred, drawing Aziraphale’s hard cock out above the waistband. “Just as perfect as the rest of you.”

Crowley slid to his knees on the floor between Aziraphale’s parted thighs, tugging at Aziraphale’s clothes until he lifted himself enough to have his trousers and underthings pulled down past his knees, bunching around his ankles in a most undignified manner. 

“There you are,” said Crowley, resting back on his heels for a moment, his eyes raking their way down the spectacle before him. “Gorgeous. Fuck, if I could paint.”

“You can’t mean that.” 

Aziraphale felt entirely too exposed and awkward to imagine he presented any sort of appealing picture, half-naked and flushed and desperately hard, sitting on a saggy old sofa in the back of a dusty shop. He wasn’t even sure where to put his hands, with Crowley out of reach.

“You’re beautiful, Angel, would I lie to you?”

Aziraphale shook his head, something painfully tender waking in his chest at those words. “No. No, I don’t believe you would. Not about this.” 

He watched as Crowley leaned forward again, kissing his way up the moon-pale skin of Aziraphale’s inner thighs, licking along the crease at the juncture of leg and stomach with his wonderfully peculiar tongue. It felt marvellous, but far too delicate, and Aziraphale held himself in trembling tension as he waited to see what would happen next. 

“And you’re all mine,” murmured Crowley. His elegant fingers stroked the thickness of Aziraphale’s cock, and he bent to caress the length of it with his tongue, forked and too long to be quite human, curling around it with each lick. 

“Yes,” agreed Aziraphale. “All yours.”

Crowley grinned as if he’d been waiting for the confirmation, then wrapped his lips around Aziraphale’s cock, his head dropping downwards, cheeks hollowing as he sucked. His mouth was hot and slick, the flat of his tongue still exploring as he moved forwards, nose bumping against the crease of Aziraphale’s stomach.

“All yours, Crowley,” Aziraphale told him, watching the wet slide of his cock in and out of Crowley’s mouth. “Forever, if you’ll have me, dearest, you’re all I want, all of you, and oh, gosh, you’re very good at this, aren’t you? Oh, you’re so good to me, Crowley, my darling!”

He twined a curl of Crowley’s hair about his fingers, lost in the hypnotising view before him and the building waves of pleasure. He was still prattling on when Crowley pulled away with a wet sucking sound that left Aziraphale groaning at the loss of his mouth.

“You can’t say things like that,” said Crowley, staring up at him, almost pained. “I used to be better at this, how can you even still talk?”

“I’m sorry,” gasped Aziraphale, his fingers still clutching at red hair. “I shan’t, if you don’t want to hear it, but it’s true!”

“Fuck,” said Crowley, glancing to the side, then paused, as if struck by a thought. “Yes. Need you to fuck me.” 

He pulled up another miracle, his clothes disappearing entirely as he scrambled up off the floor and into Aziraphale’s lap, naked and beautiful and quite unashamed. In the dark, shuttered shop the dim light caught the planes of his body like a sculpture in motion, splendid in bronze.

“Jolly good,” managed Aziraphale, watching wide-eyed as Crowley straddled his thighs and reached back for his spit-wet cock, and then quite suddenly he found himself inside Crowley, already as wet and open as needed. It was hot, and sudden, and wonderful, and Aziraphale made an extremely undignified noise.

“Been waiting all day,” growled Crowley through bared teeth, his head thrown back as he ground down against Aziraphale, taking him entirely in a single thrust. 

“A few hours, at most. Oh, Crowley!” 

Crowley groaned again at the sound of his name, and he rocked upwards just enough to bear down hard again. The sofa’s seat wasn’t quite deep enough to allow much movement, especially with Crowley’s long legs, and Aziraphale had to slouch down a bit further to get a good angle, his shirt bunching under his armpits in a manner that would probably have been uncomfortable, if he’d had a moment’s attention to spare for it. He did not. 

The temperature of Crowley’s skin was always a little cooler than a human’s would be, but inside he was hot, a tight clenching heat warmer than his mouth. Aziraphale ran his hands up Crowley’s lean sides, stroking over skin and hair, his hands fluttering helplessly as Crowley took charge, fucking himself down onto Aziraphale’s cock with abandon.

Lately, Crowley had taken to pulling his long hair back at the temples, similar to the style he had worn a decade ago, with a little bundle of hair at the back of his head. Aziraphale reached up, fumbling for the elastic that held it, and pulled it free as gently as he could as their movements together became more frantic. Dark red curls fell forward in a curtain that framed Crowley’s beautiful sharp face.

He dug a hand into the curls, lifting Crowley’s head to look at him, his dark eyebrows and golden eyes, the shine of his wet lower lip where his teeth had caught it. 

“All yours,” Aziraphale said, unable to keep the words from spilling out of him. He was made to sing praise, after all. “I’m yours, I love all of you, Crowley, I mean it, I’d follow you to the stars, dearest Crowley, you’re everything. I love you, oh, all that you - ah! - are.”

“Angel,” moaned Crowley, steadying himself with one hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder, pushing aside the cloth of the shirt he was still half-wearing, the other gripping his own cock now, working himself in time with Aziraphale’s thrusts. 

“Oh, I think I might come,” managed Aziraphale, squeezing his eyes shut against the image of Crowley leaning back in his lap, his hard cock sliding through his beautiful, delicate hand as he moved. Suddenly he didn’t dare look, afraid he wouldn’t be able to help himself.

“Great, me too,” gasped Crowley. “Fuck, this really isn’t going to take long.” 

Even with his eyes closed, Aziraphale could tell he was glowing already, just a bit. It happened sometimes, and unlike his wings, he didn’t seem to have much control over it. Sure enough, as he opened them again, he found himself at the centre of a warm radiance that encompassed Crowley and himself, illuminating stray strands of red hair like trails of golden light. He joined his hand to Crowley’s, jerking swiftly over his cock until Crowley shouted without words, crying out as he came against Aziraphale’s bare skin in hot white streaks, clenching around Aziraphale tightly enough to almost hurt. 

Aziraphale threw his hips forward, his back arching as he gripped Crowley’s hips. He was aware he might be holding on too tightly as wild, bright ecstasy crashed through him like a flood. 

“That’s good, oh, my darling,” he panted, repeating the words like a chant. “I’m yours, Crowley, I love you so very much, you’re so good, so good.”

There was a moment where he thought he could feel Crowley’s heartbeat inside his own, as if their spirits had mingled. Then Crowley slumped against him, his slender body heaving as he caught the breath he didn’t need and fell boneless and sprawling back against the sofa cushions once more. It was much the same position as he had always favoured, although Aziraphale certainly found the absence of clothes an improvement to the view. 

“I’m not good, remember,” said Crowley, noting his appreciative gaze. “Can’t be good.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “I wish you’d stop that.”

Absently he pulled up his trousers and miracled any spatters of semen from the upholstery. Not that he was intending to keep it, but it seemed polite for the sake of any potential future owner.

“It’s true. Hey, I had an idea. Another fantasy of mine. I can tell you if you like?” Idly Crowley reached back for his wineglass, apparently in no hurry to get dressed again. 

As if there could be any question about it. “Please do,” said Aziraphale, and wriggled himself into a comfortable sitting position once more.

“Right, well. Not here, but when we get home, back to our bed, I want to, uh. I want to see if I can get you, you know, get you off, a lot. Multiple times? But just you. I’m not allowed to, myself. So I’d have to make you come, over and over, and then when you can’t manage any more, you get to decide whether I’m allowed to, at the end.” 

Crowley began easily enough, but even in the first sentence he began to squirm as he spoke, one hand raking through his hair until he was grinding out the words as if each was an increasing humiliation. For someone who could sometimes summon such poetry, he often wasn’t terribly good at expressing himself. It was a shame, when what he had to say was so wonderful.

“Ooh,” breathed Aziraphale, already intrigued. “Goodness. So you’d just have to keep, um, I see. Doing whatever I needed from you. Over and over, as you said, as much as we both could stand. And at the end of all that, after you’d got me, um, off, so many times, I’d be really rather wrung out, wouldn’t I? All overstimulated and tender, probably.”

“Uh. Yeah.” Crowley was regarding him wild-eyed, looking more dumbfounded with every word. 

“So when I wanted to reward you, and let you come for me, because of course I’d want to reward you for doing such a good job, I know you’d do it awfully well, but I wouldn’t be able to help at all. You’d have to do all the work, and I’d just lie back and let you ravish me. I imagine you might go a bit wild at that point, after denying yourself so long.” He pictured it, imagined himself weak and helpless with pleasure, being fucked hard by a desperate Crowley. “Yes, that sounds very much like something we should try, I think.”

“How are you like this?” whispered Crowley hoarsely. He was halfway to hard again, his curved cock thickening against one slender thigh, and he certainly didn’t look displeased about it. “How did I not realise you would be like this?” 

“I’m not the one with all the marvellous ideas, darling,” said Aziraphale happily. He reached out to take one of Crowley’s long, beloved hands in his own. “That’s all you. It’s what you’ve always done best, my dear.” 

Crowley stared down at their hands. “Loving you?” he asked.

A fresh pulse of joy seemed to burst in Aziraphale’s chest. “Having ideas. Asking questions,” he said, and then, since it was a fair point, he added, “and loving me.”

“Yeah, don’t know about the rest of that,” began Crowley, squirming again, but Aziraphale was not about to be cut off. He waved up at the shop around them, the dusty shelves and the tomes littered all about. It was high time they dealt with this.

“Listen to me, Crowley. I read all these books, you know I do, and there’s so much to discover. It fascinates me, but I absorb it like a sponge, not the way you do it at all. You, you’re like a knight errant, questing always, the way you think of things. You asked why we were both cancelling each other out and came up with the Arrangement, you asked why Armageddon couldn’t be averted, you worked out what Agnes’ last prophecy meant. You’re every bit as brilliant as the stars you used to make. Darling, I know you may not think you can be good, but I disagree. You ask very good questions and you have very good ideas. That’s something, surely.”

“Do I?” asked Crowley, looking suddenly terribly fragile, folded up on the sofa naked as a baby bird and just as ungainly. “They don’t always work very well.”

“No, but then sometimes, they’re the only thing that does work, and you end up saving the world. Dear heart, I know you. I know you’re wicked and willful and you like to make trouble, but that doesn’t make you a demon, not any more, anyway. If you want a new purpose, I think you’ve already found it. You challenge things. Perhaps that’s what She wanted all along.” 

Crowley was silent for a moment, his mouth working wordlessly, his eyebrows pinched. With a limp gesture he miracled himself into some trousers so tight he might almost as well have stayed nude, took a deep breath, and cracked a smile at last.

“You might have a point. I did have the idea to shag on this sofa. That was a good one.” 

“Oh, you crude oaf,” sniffed Aziraphale despairingly, as the one true love of his long immortal life threw back his head and began to cackle with glee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks to Hoomhum again for their wonderful beta-reading! <3


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Quite innocently, Adam walked over to the tree. Their tree, the ancient, wizened apple tree in the garden of Paradise Cottage, with its leaves still green in late October, its boughs heavy with blood-red fruit. Neither Aziraphale nor Crowley had picked any of it yet, for reasons it had never seemed necessary to contemplate too deeply._
> 
> _“Ooh,” said Aziraphale._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH MY GOSH GUYS. Thank you for bearing with me for the past... nearly a month?! My poor wonderful beta readers have all had a shocking time of it lately, and I am deeply indebted to all of them for finding time to look after me and my little fic despite all that. The good news is that the rest of the story is now written, beta'd (lightly, but I think it'll be ok?) and ready to be uploaded over the next fortnight.
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who's read so far, and I hope you'll enjoy the last few chapters!!

\---

The bed was different. Its edges were somehow fuzzy, and the white walls of their bedroom had disappeared into an ethereal mist that seemed to go on forever. Aziraphale sat up and turned to see Crowley still fast asleep, the beautiful red-gold sprawl of him glowing like a fire in a field of snow. He was snoring softly, and drooling a little on his pillow, and Aziraphale felt such a rush of love he couldn’t tear his gaze away.

“There he is!” called a distant voice, and suddenly they weren’t alone.

Beside the bed appeared Gabriel, Uriel and Michael, their shining wings spread, resplendent in heavenly robes as he had not seen them for millenia. Aziraphale was abruptly conscious of his nakedness, and at once equally determined not to let it bother him. If he was good enough for Crowley, he was certainly more than these archangels deserved.

“Well, this is convenient,” said Gabriel with false cheeriness, rubbing his hands. “We can visit you in dreams now, just like the humans. So much for being Ever Vigilant, huh? Forgive the whole look, it’s a subconscious mind thing.”

“Hullo, Gabriel. Uriel, Michael. Is, er. Is something the matter?”

Only Gabriel laughed, and it was not a nice laugh, not at all. Uriel’s sneer could have curdled milk.

“It’s really just a courtesy call, Aziraphale,” said Michael briskly. “We know you went to London yesterday, like we knew you’d come back here. So we thought we’d take the opportunity to remind you. There’s nowhere you can hide from us, if that’s what you’re planning.”

Gabriel inclined his head in sage agreement. “You may have gotten Hell to drop out of the project but believe me, Heaven does not give up so easily.”

“Not in the business of forgiveness, then?” asked Aziraphale. The figure of Crowley beside him had not stirred, and Aziraphale reached to tug a loose corner of coverlet over his bare shoulder. In his sleep, Crowley mumbled something and smiled. 

“Forgiveness, sure! For forgivable things. For the rest, there’s vengeance. It’s nothing personal, Aziraphale.”

“You don’t have to do this.” He knew full well it wouldn’t make a difference, and yet Aziraphale couldn’t help himself. Surely there was a chance he could make them understand. 

“We’re Angels,” said Uriel simply. “We don’t have a choice.”

“There’s always a choice, as it turns out. Even for us.”

Gabriel stepped nearer, leaning in until his face was unpleasantly close. He glowed faintly, and the air about him smelled rich and sweet, with a whiff of something else to it that Aziraphale had never noticed before, sugary like overripe fruit on the edge of succumbing to rot. He resisted the urge to shrink away, in no mood to be intimidated by such nasty little games. It was infuriating, how long he had spent grovelling to a fellow so contemptibly repellent. 

“It may not be personal, but I’m going to take some really _professional_ job satisfaction from ending you, Aziraphale,” said Gabriel, his voice low and confiding. “No matter where you go, no matter how you think you can escape us, you can’t. We’re coming for you, ok? That’s all. Remember that.”

Aziraphale wasn’t sure what he would’ve said in response, but he didn’t get a chance to say anything. The three Archangels spread their wings wide and vanished in a burst of blinding celestial radiance that burned his vision to blackness.

\---

Aziraphale blinked rapidly, emerging from sleep with a start. It took a moment to be certain of where he was, sitting up to check the bed beneath him was its familiar self once more and the walls had returned to their normal state. 

“I think I had a dream,” he said hesitantly, and beside him Crowley went from semi-conscious mumbling to wide awake at once. 

“Shit, yes, those happen. Should’ve said, I worked out how to turn them off right at the beginning. Never liked them much.”

Aziraphale stared up at the ceiling and willed his racing pulse to slow to a more normal speed. “No, I don’t think I do, either. I, er, got a visit from my old colleagues.”

“Oh, fuck,” moaned Crowley, dragging his hands through his hair, magnificently dishevelled as it often was by morning. If it was indeed morning. The two of them had returned from London the same day and acted upon Crowley’s excellent suggestion from the bookshop immediately, vigorously, and for a number of hours, which meant that yet again Aziraphale had no real idea of what day or time it was by now. “What did they do? Bastards.”

“Nothing substantial. Only said that we can’t hide, and they’re going to come for us. Vague threats of that sort.” 

Crowley rolled his eyes theatrically, his expression both aggrieved and resigned at once. “The usual, then. You know, Angel, I don’t think they’ve got a plan any more than we have.” 

“I hope you’re right,” sighed Aziraphale. 

He snuggled back under the covers to reach for Crowley. A faint ache lingered in his lower regions and he contemplated miracling it away, before deciding he rather liked it. He drew a hopeful fingertip down through the dark, swirled hair of Crowley’s bare chest, wondering if he could make a case for needing to be distracted or cheered up after his nightmare. 

There was an odd buzzing sound that Aziraphale didn’t recognise. Crowley stretched over him to reach for his wireless telephone on the nightstand, his free arm still wrapped around Aziraphale snugly, making him shiver at the joy of it, to be so casually naked in bed with an equally naked Crowley sprawled across one. He wriggled closer into the embrace with a contented hum.

Crowley glared at the telephone’s screen. “Heaven bless it, Adam’s on his way over here! Did you invite him?” 

“What? No, of course not! What time will he arrive?”

“About ten minutes,” spat Crowley, throwing back the covers. “Little shit.”

With a profoundly frustrated sigh, Aziraphale gave up on any hope of a quick fumble, and consoled himself with the prospect of debuting his new wardrobe instead.

\---

By the time he made his way downstairs, he found Crowley attired for the day as usual, eating a leftover muffin from the previous week’s baking and sipping a tiny cup of black coffee as if it had offended him.

“Angel,” he said wryly, taking in Aziraphale’s new outfit, some toffee-coloured corduroy trousers and a soft sleeveless pullover in place of his usual waistcoat. It felt thrillingly casual and almost too comfortable to quite believe, rather like wearing pyjamas in public. “What’ve you got behind your back?”

“A gift,” said Aziraphale, holding out a floppy, tissue-wrapped rectangle. “I got you a little token of my affection at Mr Burberry’s shop.”

Crowley took it from him. His eyebrows rose, and he looked more suspicious than pleased. “This isn’t that shirt, is it? With the see-through stripes?”

“It’s not. I do hope you’ll like it.”

Aziraphale bit his lip, watching anxiously as Crowley tore through the paper and held up the contents for inspection. From his hands hung a plain knitted jumper in a beautifully soft, thick yarn, with a deep v-neck. He stared at it, his mouth hanging open.

“Not really my colour,” he said.

“Yes, but only just. The label said Darkest Emerald, and I thought it might be nice for you to try a change, too.”

“You want me to wear this?”

“You don’t have to.”

Already, even as Aziraphale spoke, Crowley was pulling it over his head, dragging the weight of his hair out of the collar and shaking it out down his back. The jumper was a green as deep as a pine forest at night, so close to black Aziraphale had wondered if it would make any difference at all. 

He looked over Crowley, at his deep red hair, the tawny undertone of his skin, at how the mere shadow of a colour set off his looks in an entirely different way, and knew it made all the difference in the world. 

“I think it looks very handsome,” he said, and reached out to touch it. It felt soft as lamb’s fleece, gentling Crowley’s lovely angles in a way that seemed to compliment them at the same time. 

“Maybe. I still prefer black. Black is… stylish.” Crowley grimaced as he heard himself say it. He held out the jumper’s hem before him and scowled at it. “Ahh, everything else is changing, I suppose it won’t hurt.”

Aziraphale took a step closer, leaning up to kiss his cheek. “You’re welcome,” he said. 

At once, Crowley’s arms wrapped about his waist with snakelike speed, pulling him closer for more kisses. Aziraphale giggled, and there was a sound of barking out in the garden.

It was Dog, of course, and beside him Adam was waving at them through the kitchen window. With a sigh, Aziraphale disentangled himself from Crowley’s arms, straightening his bow-tie and smiling politely.

“Dog’s a bit muddy,” said Adam, muffled through the glass. “Can we come in?”

He pointed at the animal in question, whose normally black and white fur was impressively matted with filth, and then looked down at his own caked boots. 

“It’s not that bad,” he added hopefully.

Aziraphale was already making for the back door at speed. Behind him, Crowley sniggered. 

“Angel gets funny about cleaning things,” he called through the window. “We’ll come out to you.”

Outside it was glorious, the sort of unseasonably warm day that surely shouldn’t happen so late in the year. Adam had found their garden bench and was sitting upon it, playing tug-o-war with Dog over a stick and shading his eyes from the bright daylight. It must be afternoon, then, if the sun was on this side of the house. 

A thought struck Aziraphale. “Adam, dear boy, oughtn’t you to be in school?”

“No-one’s going to realise I wasn’t, not today. I made it so they'll think I was sat at the back being quiet. Ana’s gone to get her dress so you’re not going to come after school, and I wanted to see you. I want to know what happened on Saturday.”

Crowley emerged from the house, rounding the corner of the dogrose bush with his sunglasses on and a fresh coffee in hand, just in time to hear the question. 

“A Duke of Hell and an Archangel tried to kill us,” he drawled. “Nothing we couldn’t handle.” 

Adam was agog at once. “No way! What happened?”

“Oh, not much,” said Aziraphale, doing his best to sound reassuring. Crowley did have a habit of making everything so very dramatic. “It all fell a bit flat, I think. You see, usually, a Demon can be killed with Holy Water and an Angel with Hellfire, but Crowley and I appear to have become respectively immune to such things. There wasn’t any fighting to speak of.”

Adam looked disappointed, and Crowley grinned.

“What happened was, my personal nemesis Duke Hastur turned up with some Archangel in tow announcing he was going to destroy us both,” said Crowley. “Then our Angel here stepped up to face off against him, and, long story short, poor old Hastur got disintegrated into a big black puddle of demonic goo.”

“Cool! What did you do?” Adam asked Aziraphale eagerly.

“Excuse me, I didn’t do anything! Well, I shook his hand. It was the Holy Water that… concluded matters.”

“Melted like a candle in a bonfire. Screamed the whole time,” said Crowley, sipping his coffee.

“Wicked,” breathed Adam. “How come you’re both immune, though?” 

“I have no idea,” said Aziraphale, frowning sternly at Crowley’s gruesomeness. “There’s really no precedent for such a thing. I think presently my best theory is because we’ve been inside each other’s bodies?”

"Angel," winced Crowley. He nodded meaningfully at the boy on their garden bench, who was now regarding Aziraphale with the condescending revulsion of a child who considered Adult Proclivities incomprehensibly gross. It was much the expression Gabriel used when he saw food.

“Oh, dear, I didn’t mean like that!” exclaimed Aziraphale. “Or at least, not only like that, although actually I suppose that might have something to do with it, too…” 

“Ignore him, Adam,” said Crowley, tossing the dregs of his coffee into the soil under the dogrose. “I think we’ve got biscuits in the house, if you want one.”

Adam was on his feet at once, grateful for the escape. He took a step towards the back door, then paused. 

“Can I have one of your apples instead?”

Quite innocently, Adam walked over to the tree. Their tree, the ancient, wizened apple tree in the garden of Paradise Cottage, with its leaves still green in late October, its boughs heavy with blood-red fruit. Neither Aziraphale nor Crowley had picked any of it yet, for reasons it had never seemed necessary to contemplate too deeply.

“Ooh,” said Aziraphale.

“Ngk,” said Crowley.

“What?” asked Adam, reaching up already to the branch where the lowest, largest apple still hung enticingly, his hand curled around it, ready to pull. Sunbeams streamed through the leaves, outlining the boy in gleaming golden light. A blackbird sang in the distance.

“Well it’s just that,” stammered Aziraphale, looking over at Crowley and seeing him frozen in place. “It’s just that last time we were left in charge of an apple tree, they weren’t supposed to get eaten.”

“You were in charge, not me,” interjected Crowley, and he licked his lips nervously with a tongue that forked slightly at the tip.

“Oh,” said Adam, looking at the apple, red against his hand. “Is there anything magic about them?”

Aziraphale looked at Crowley again, who looked back at him, his expression still blank with panic. “Not so far as we know, but...”

There was a very quiet snapping sound as Adam broke the apple from the tree. The leaves seemed to quiver with the recoil of the branch, a shudder that ran through the trunk and out across the whole garden, shimmering in rings through the grass like a shockwave. Though perhaps that was just Aziraphale’s imagination. 

Apple in hand, Adam held it out to them both, and smiled. 

“I suppose since it’s your tree, you should have the first one.” 

Crowley’s arm snaked out, grabbing the apple from Adam with startling speed. Once he held it in his hand, he only stared at the fruit, as bewildered as if he’d never seen one before. Aziraphale found himself standing up, a cautioning hand laid on Crowley’s arm, although he couldn’t recall having moved.

“Don’t you want to try it?” asked Adam. He looked at the fruit, and back at the pair of them, and put his head on one side, clearly finding the whole business pretty funny. “I mean, sometimes an apple is just an apple.”

Crowley glared at the boy and pulled an irritated, sneering face in response, then swallowed hard and bit into the fruit. It was a deep bite, the sort that could not be taken back. He chewed, and handed the apple to Aziraphale. 

“Your turn,” he said, somewhat indistinctly.

Obediently, Aziraphale took a bite. The apple tasted delicious, its flesh crisp and juicy and the flavour strong but complex, almost floral. All the same, when he swallowed it was more reluctantly than usual. He looked at Crowley.

“Feel any different?” he asked.

Crowley shook his head. “No.”

“Nor do I.”

“Are you sure?” asked Adam eagerly, and Crowley scowled down at him with truly terrifying ferocity.

“You were the one who said it was just an apple!”

Adam shrugged one shoulder, evidently a mite crestfallen, scuffing his shoe in the grass. “Yeah, I know. But it’d be cool if you got superpowers. Like, you could fly or something.”

“F… fly? I’ve got fucking _wings,_ you little...!” spluttered Crowley.

“Language, Crowley!”

“I forgot about that,” admitted Adam, his face brightening again at once. “Hey, will you take me flying one day?”

“Sure, why not, drop you off a cliff while we’re up there,” snarled Crowley. He stalked over to the apple tree and pulled off another for himself, and one for Adam. “Eat that and shut up, kid.”

As the two of them bickered and Dog bounced up and down like a spring, begging for an apple of his own, Aziraphale took another bite, and savoured it this time. 

Not everything had to be so significant, after all, did it? There was something to be said for just the ordinary taste of delicious apples. Not good, not evil. Simply a part of the world. It was what you did with it that mattered, and if Aziraphale was any judge, these particular apples would make a really magnificent Tarte Tatin to share with friends. They’d need about half a dozen for the recipe he had in mind. It might be nice to bring one to the wedding, even.

Aziraphale finished his apple to the core. It felt almost like a revelation.

\---

“Do you ever think about the other one?” asked Aziraphale, after Adam had left. Crowley was peeling and coring apples, and Aziraphale was slicing them neatly to arrange in the pan. “Do you think we should go and see him, too?”

Crowley snorted. “Warlock? Bit late for that. The Dowlings moved back to the US last month. Anyway Warlock’s fine. Warlock’s _normal.”_ He pronounced it as if the word tasted nasty.

“That was rather the idea,” said Aziraphale, and Crowley shrugged, letting his shoulders gesticulate for him since his hands were busy. A lock of stray hair hung over his face, and Aziraphale reached across to wind it back around the bun at the back of Crowley’s head. The sun was already setting outside, the cottage warm and filled with the scent of melting butter, cinnamon and sugar.

“Yes, but, imagine having an Angel and a Demon directly overseeing your childhood and still turning out normal,” said Crowley moodily. “Obsessed with bodily functions and fighting. He didn’t get that from either of us. I blame the parents.”

“He could be a bit tiresome, I suppose.”

“Put it this way. Imagine any of the Tadfield lot throwing cake at hired staff on minimum wage, or telling strangers they smelled like poo. You can’t, can you.”

Aziraphale considered. “You still keep an eye on him, though.”

“Of course I do. I was fond of him, just like you were. Maybe we’ll go and visit next year, eh?”

“That might be nice,” agreed Aziraphale, and meant it. “I’ve never actually been to the new America, after it was colonised.” 

“Next year’s trip, then. A real holiday, not just accidentally moving in together.”

Aziraphale laughed. It hardly needed to be said, but it was nice to hear that Crowley, too, considered this place to be theirs now, and permanent. A home where they lived together, baked together, and could make plans together for the future. He leaned over to inspect Crowley’s work, surreptitiously turning off the stove burner as he went, and sneaked a kiss. It went on for rather a long time.

“I thought we were baking?”

“We could do it later,” suggested Aziraphale, and Crowley rolled his pretty eyes, but he didn’t disagree.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The abandoned tarte tatin ingredients from the night before found themselves miraculously fresh and ready to cook with again, and by the time he heard the front door open there was also some nice lavender shortbread cooling on a rack and a pot of indefinitely hot tea that had been waiting on the table for an hour._
> 
> _“Come in, my dears!” said Aziraphale, whipping off his apron and hanging it back on its hook. “Tea? I’ve just made it.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blessings as ever upon Mith, Yubi and Hoomhum for their beta work and encouragement!!

\---

It was Saturday, one week to the day until the Pulsifer’s second wedding, and Aziraphale had seen neither hide nor hair of either of them since the night of Newton’s Stag Celebration. It bothered him.

He had settled quietly into his snug the night before, taking comfort in re-reading some of his old favourites. Sleeping had lost its appeal for the moment with the knowledge that his former colleagues might drop by uninvited to his dreams. Instead he turned the pages of The House at Pooh Corner, fretting vaguely, until Crowley, dressed already and with his sunglasses in place, appeared in the doorway framed by the grey light of morning and carrying a tray. Upon it stood a large mug of cocoa, a tiny cup of black coffee, and the day’s post. They didn’t usually get much, and today there was only one envelope, addressed to them both.

“Do the honours?” said Crowley, and handed it to Aziraphale, who slit the top using his preferred letter-opener (the one with the wing-shaped crystal handle) and began to read.

Several pages of closely-written text in Anathema’s spidery hand were inside. The letter alternated between apologising for having caused offence and a rather passionate defence of her actions, decorated at various points with what appeared to be drops of water that had smeared the ink. It concluded with another profuse apology and tentatively asked whether the wedding venue needed to be rearranged.

Aziraphale held it out to Crowley, who leafed through and grimaced at it.

“Poor dear,” sighed Aziraphale. “I should probably invite her for tea and sort this out.”

“Mm. I’ve still got stuff I need to catch up on back in London,” said Crowley. “Only take me a few hours. I could pick her up on my way back, if you like.”

“That would be very helpful, thank you. What are you up to in town? Wicked deeds to perform?” Aziraphale picked up his cocoa and sipped it, though it was still a touch too hot to be drinkable. Over the rim, he watched Crowley’s spine stiffen and his shoulders rise up like a dog’s hackles.

“Maybe.” 

“Jolly good,” replied Aziraphale blithely. “Just, save a few for when you get home, hmm?”

There was a moment while Crowley processed the statement before a slow smile crept across his face. “Planning to thwart me, are you?”

“Oh yes. Quite thoroughly, I should imagine,” said Aziraphale, as evenly as he could whilst stifling the urge to giggle. “Over and over.”

Very deliberately, Crowley removed his sunglasses and put them down on the desk. 

“Oh, now, dearest boy, do watch out for my cocoa!” squeaked Aziraphale, hastily miracling it to safety as Crowley pounced.

\---

About an hour later, with Crowley resolutely thwarted, recovered, and finally off on his errands, Aziraphale had the house to himself.

Naturally, he baked. It was soothing and gave him time to think, to get his words in order before he had to explain himself to poor Anathema. It had never occurred to him that his own upset might have affected her. The abandoned tarte tatin ingredients from the night before found themselves miraculously fresh and ready to cook with again, and by the time he heard the front door open there was also some nice lavender shortbread cooling on a rack and a pot of indefinitely hot tea that had been waiting on the table for an hour.

“Come in, my dears!” said Aziraphale, whipping off his apron and hanging it back on its hook. “Tea? I’ve just made it.”

Crowley appeared first, the silly little silver scarf swinging from his clavicles as he stalked across the room, ignoring the offer entirely in favour of sliding his fingers into the curls at the nape of Aziraphale's neck and kissing him. 

“Brought you some humans,” he said. “I’ll be in the greenhouse, let me know when you’re done with them.”

“Absolutely, tickety boo,” gasped Aziraphale, rather wrong-footed by the kiss. It wasn't as if they hadn't been doing kissing, rather a lot of it really, it was just that not much of it had been done in front of people. Over Crowley’s shoulder he could see Ana and Newton standing stopped in their tracks in the doorway.

Crowley winked, and left through the back door as slinkily as he'd entered. Aziraphale shut his eyes, took a steadying breath and arranged his features into a welcoming smile before turning to his guests. 

“Hello,” he began, without any idea what to say next.

“Hi,” managed Anathema.

"Um. Tea would be lovely," said Newton.

Aziraphale silently blessed the boy for his brilliance. At once he began setting out cups and saucers, the sugar bowl and milk jug, the small rituals of it all setting him back at ease once more. Tea was poured, and biscuits distributed, and once everyone was seated and provided for, Aziraphale began.

“I believe I owe you an apology,” he said, and Anathema half-choked on her shortbread.

“Wait, what? That’s my line. I’m the one that burned the book.”

Aziraphale inclined his head and dropped another lump of sugar into his cup. Hearing the thing said again did not make this any easier, but he pressed on. “It was your book, my dear. More importantly, it was your choice. I don’t see why you should be obliged to sacrifice a chance to seek happiness, and I realise you found my initial reaction upsetting. Therefore, I wish to apologise.”

“But, don’t you think it was selfish of me?” she asked, leaning forward intently.

“Well, so what if it was?” asked Aziraphale, stirring his tea with, he thought, admirable calm. “Effectively, you... disposed... of the book to save yourself, and I think it was a perfectly reasonable choice. A human life is worth more than a book. There. I’ve said it.”

Ana’s eyes were almost as wide and round as her spectacles, and she appeared to be on the verge of weeping. Newton looked anxiously from his wife to Aziraphale. 

“That’s what I told her,” he said.

“And you were quite right, dear boy. It’s not the sort of thing that gets discussed in Heaven, but I’m discovering that a moral choice can be a more complex thing than they realise. And I do believe you did what was necessary, my dear.” 

“So you forgive me,” said Anathema.

Aziraphale set down his teaspoon and smiled at her sadly. “My dear, did you really think I wouldn’t? Me?”

Anathema stared at him for a long moment, then squeezed her eyes shut and flung herself around to table to wrap her arms around his neck. It was most peculiar. Barring Crowley, Aziraphale wasn’t sure he’d been hugged by anyone in centuries. He was pleased to find he didn’t really mind it, however, and tried gently patting her on the shoulder in return.

“I was so worried!” sobbed Anathema, who had burst into tears. “You’re so sweet and I thought I’d hurt you, and Crowley was going to come and kick my ass, and everything was so terrible!”

“Oh, there, there!” said Aziraphale, as comfortingly as he could. “Really, I should almost thank you. It’s all very well to make one’s peace with moral complexity in the abstract, but there’s nothing quite like a practical application to really make one face up to what one really believes.”

Anathema sat back, rubbing her eyes on the lace of her sleeve. “Thank me? You’re really going to thank me for burning a book?” she asked, the ghost of a smile peeking through the last of the tears. Aziraphale pursed his lips and held out a handkerchief, which she took from him gratefully. 

“Well,” he admitted. “I did say almost.”

“You’ve taken it rather better than Ana’s mum did,” said Newton, looking pleased and helping himself to another bit of shortbread. “At one point I thought she was going to fly straight back to America.”

Anathema sat back, groaning, and blew her nose loudly. 

“Don’t even get me started,” she said, and began to recount the tale at length.

\---

As dusk drew nearer Crowley reemerged to drive the Pulsifers home, despite protestations that the bus would be perfectly fine, and Aziraphale took the opportunity to nip down to Freeman’s the village grocer. He picked up more dog biscuits, a few bottles of decidedly unprepossessing red, and a bag of oranges, before returning to the cottage to raid his spice racks.

Once home he found some candles, and some empty jamjars to safely burn them in, and dotted them about the garden bench, which he festooned in blankets and cushions from the sitting room. Soon, two steaming pewter tankards released the delicious scent of mulled wine into the gathering evening, and on the stove indoors cinnamon sticks swirled lazily in a large stockpot containing the rest of the wine. Aziraphale snuggled in amongst the cushions, burying his nose into his fragrant drink, and watched Anthony the fox happily crunching biscuits while he waited for Crowley’s return.

It was a bright, clear night, and his breath hung foggy in the cold air, the tip of his nose cold despite the warmth of the mulled wine in his hands. Above him, stars twinkled prettily, and to his quiet satisfaction he managed to find Alberio once more. It was pleasing. The day had gone well. Indeed, rather a number of unwelcome little issues seemed to have resolved themselves nicely in the last few days, and there could be no harm in a small celebration. 

Headlamps beamed past the hedge, and a moment later he heard the gravelled crunch of the Bentley being put to bed for the night in its garage, followed by the soft click of the garden gate.

“What’s this for?” asked Crowley. He had stopped a few feet away, a tall silhouette of darkness carrying a large bag in one hand. The candlelight caught on threads of his hair like embers at the edge of a log.

“No real reason,” said Aziraphale. He patted the seat beside him. “Why not, I thought.”

“Fair enough.” 

Without further ado, Crowley dropped the bag and slithered his way into the blankets. Greedily his hands sought the warmth under Aziraphale’s waistcoat, his chilled fingers making the angel flinch even through his shirt. Aziraphale tutted, setting down his drink to wrap an arm around Crowley’s bony shoulder.

“He’s not as dim as he looks, that Newton boy,” said Crowley, somewhat muffled against Aziraphale’s neck. “Asked me some fairly pertinent questions about azaleas and the local soil acidity on the way back.”

“That’s interesting. I suppose gardening doesn’t involve too many computers. It might be exactly what would suit him.”

Crowley hummed agreeably. “Thinking I might talk to the manager of that Garden Centre, see if they’ve got any jobs going. The place is like something out of last century. They’ve barely got calculators, just write everything down in a ledger.”

“That would be very kind of you, my dear,” said Aziraphale, trying keep the smile from his voice.

“Shut up,” snarled Crowley, squirming away and ending up tucked halfway under Aziraphale’s arm, his long legs slung over the arm of the bench. “I could use his staff discount, that’s all. And I don’t want him underfoot in my greenhouse.”

Aziraphale chose not to pursue the matter. He rested his cheek against Crowley’s hair and looked up at the sky. “I was thinking about your stars, while you were gone. Those ones.” He pointed up to where Alberio sparkled faintly.

“The ones with the gravity fuckup? Why?” grimaced Crowley, still contorting himself into what, for him, might pass for a comfortable position. 

“Well, I was thinking that perhaps they aren’t a fuckup, as you so elegantly put it. Perhaps they were always meant to be together, and it’s just taking them a long time to realise it.”

Crowley stilled for a moment, then chuckled, so softly it was barely audible. One foot kicked out at the bag abandoned on the grass. 

“You should open that. It’s why I went to town; you gave me a jumper, so I got you something too. Go on.”

Eagerly, Aziraphale reached down and lifted the bag into his lap. The thing inside was quite long and heavier than expected, wrapped in layers of tissue. He frowned as he peeled them away, his suspicions rising.

It was, as he’d supposed, a sword. Not quite the same as his old one, but of a similar sort, something like a Roman gladius, with no crossguard and a plain hilt. It gleamed in the flickering candlelight, looking very new and shiny and very old, all at the same time. Aziraphale held it out, sighting down a blade that was straight and true, and gave it an experimental swing, noting how nicely it was weighted.

“Oh, Crowley, it’s marvellous. Where on earth did you get it from?”

“British Museum. I spruced it up a bit, obviously. Steel gets a bit fragile after a couple of millenia.” Crowley craned his neck around to wink at Aziraphale, who could only roll his eyes. 

“Crowley, you can’t go stealing priceless archaeological artefacts for me. It’s really very wicked of you.”

“Ahh, isn’t it?” said Crowley with relish, leaning down to pick up his tankard. “And besides, you can always give it back. You favourite thing, isn’t it, giving swords away? Just thought you might like it for now.”

“I do like it,” admitted Aziraphale sheepishly. It would be wrong to lie, after all.

“Can you light it up? Chilly out here.”

Aziraphale frowned. “I’m not sure I can, you know. My old one came like that already.” 

He held the sword upright, and concentrated. It wasn’t like making something ordinary and possible happen. Aziraphale felt the sweat bead along his hairline, and just a flicker of something fiery at the edge of his awareness, but the sword remained determinedly unlit. He gave up, and swooshed it through the air once more before propping it against his knees and taking up his drink, aware as the moments passed that he and Crowley were probably both thinking the same thing. 

The garden was quiet, and dark, most of the candles already beginning to gutter and sizzle out in puddles of wax. Anthony the fox had finished his dinner and slunk away.  
“Buy us some time, if nothing else,” said Crowley after a while. His voice was low and he spoke mostly into his wine. “Until they get corporeal bodies again.”

“And then what?” asked Aziraphale gloomily. His good mood was evaporating.

“How should I know? Die tragically in each other’s arms, if we’re lucky.”

Aziraphale twisted awkwardly in the sea of blankets to glare. “Would you please try to be constructive, Crowley? We’ve put the whole business off long enough, we really have to start making some sort of plan.”

“Like what?” snapped Crowley defensively. “They’re Archangels! Immensely powerful celestial beings, and worse, ones with a personal vendetta against us.”

“We have powers, too! Especially you. You were their equal, once.”

Crowley exhaled hard, all anger draining from him at once. It was a strange harsh sound, as if something within him was breaking. He threw a hand over his eyes and rubbed at his forehead, the gesture tired and hopeless.

“That was a long, long time ago, Aziraphale, and there’s more of them than us. I’ll be honest, I’ve gone over it and over it and there’s no plan we can make. We’re not going to pull the wool over their eyes twice. Of course we’ll fight, but if they want to kill us, they absolutely can.”

“Well, I disagree,” said Aziraphale stubbornly, squashing down the immediate guilt that Crowley had, in fact, been giving some thought to the issue Aziraphale had been too afraid to confront. “I simply refuse to allow it. You’re mine now, my darling, and I don’t intend to let anyone separate us.”

Crowley gazed back at him, unblinking. He reached for Aziraphale’s hand, smoothing his thumb over the knuckles, infusing his love through the skin.

“If it helps, if I had this time again, I wouldn’t spend it any differently. Not one second.”

Aziraphale smiled. “I might’ve kissed you a bit earlier. I should probably have done that sooner than I did.”

“That’s true,” agreed Crowley, his mouth twisting with amusement. “Sooner than those stars up there, though. And you can kiss me again now, if you like. Nip upstairs, maybe. Maybe even come back down and reheat the wine afterwards.”

“You wicked old tempter. We really do spend all our time in bed at present, don’t we?”

“Doesn’t have to be in bed,” said Crowley immediately. “Here’s fine with me. Or I think I remember you saying something about being bent over a certain desk. We could do that, if you like?”

Aziraphale laughed out loud, and allowed himself to be untangled from the blankets and led to the warmth of the greenhouse, where the subject of what the future might hold was dropped in favour of much more immediately pressing concerns. There were worse ways to spend the time, and no telling how much of it they had left.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The last few days to the wedding passed quickly, with Crowley becoming increasingly invested in the perfection of his floral arrangements, disappearing into the greenhouse for hours on end, hissing furiously as he stalked between the shivering leaves. Briefly, Aziraphale attempted to assist him._
> 
> _“Ease up on the flooding, Angel, Mesopotamia was a long time ago,” said Crowley, hastily removing the watering can from Aziraphale’s grasp. _

\---

It was odd to wake up in the greenhouse, though Crowley had miraculously summoned the blankets and cushions and made them a sort of nest, so it was cosy enough. Aziraphale hadn’t meant to drop off, but it was warm and snug, and Crowley had been very reluctant to let go of him, until eventually it didn’t seem worth resisting. There hadn’t been any dreams, thank goodness.

He extracted himself as gently as he could, leaving Crowley peacefully asleep, and wandered out to make a cup of tea. 

The sun was just rising, the sky still rosy, with faint stars visible in the deep blue overhead. The grass was pale with sparkling frost, and the dawn light outlined every leaf and branch in gold and painted the whitewashed walls of their cottage pink. Inside there were his books, and the kitchen where they cooked together, the sitting room where they watched films and concerts and the occasional dreadful American film full of guns and explosions, the bedroom they shared, and behind him was Crowley’s greenhouse, full of his beautiful plants. 

Aziraphale rested a hand on the trunk of the apple tree, and looked up, up beyond the moon, beyond Albireo, beyond the mortal planes, and a prayer rose in his heart. He didn't have any candles or a chalk circle this time. He was pretty sure they wouldn’t have worked if he tried them. All he had was faith, and it was almost a surprise to him to find that still intact. 

"Lord," said Aziraphale, and then stopped, wondering exactly what it was he wanted to say. 

It came to him suddenly. "Thank you. I know I’ve never been a very good Angel. Oh, everyone else up there seems to find it so easy, but it isn’t easy for me, it never has been, and I don’t want to pretend any more. I can’t be like them, so merciless and certain, and really, if it’s so wrong of me to love, to love Crowley and the humans and this earth, then I suppose I shall just have to be punished for it. It’s them I care about, not any sort of Great Plan. I can’t help that, and you most of all must know how I’ve tried.

“But even so I want to thank you. Because, you see, it’s worth it. Worth all of it. Worth anything, to have this. Even if perhaps it won’t last very long. That’s all I wanted to say, really. Thank you, Lord.”

There was no answer, of course. He no longer expected one.

Aziraphale patted the tree awkwardly. “Anyway. Lovely to talk to you. Must get on.”

\---

The last few days to the wedding passed quickly, with Crowley becoming increasingly invested in the perfection of his floral arrangements, disappearing into the greenhouse for hours on end, hissing furiously as he stalked between the shivering leaves. Briefly, Aziraphale attempted to assist him.

“Ease up on the flooding, Angel, Mesopotamia was a long time ago,” said Crowley, hastily removing the watering can from Aziraphale’s grasp. 

“I thought I might help,” explained Aziraphale, as he shuffled back from the puddle now spreading towards his toes. 

Crowley snapped his fingers, evaporating the water back into the can, even from the earth within the pot. It was just possible that the plant perked up slightly as a result, and Aziraphale felt mildly betrayed. 

“Yeah, no thanks. I know you, you’re like the Black Death of Horticulture.”

“Excuse me! I was Head Gardener of a fairly large estate for five years, as you well know!”

“And, lucky for you, there were two very good under-gardeners on staff and a demon who spent most of her time off following you around and resurrecting what you’d murdered.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, crestfallen. Crowley kissed his cheek and pushed him firmly towards the door.

“Don’t ever touch my plants,” he said fondly, and for once, Aziraphale was not inclined to argue.

So instead he met with Anathema and her mother for tea, discussed music and the composing of vows, and listened to Mrs Device describe everything within sight as “cute” until he developed an involuntary twitch in one eyelid. He took home a bag of silver-wrapped chocolates she had brought as a gift and Crowley instantly abandoned his work to watch intently as Aziraphale opened them.

“What… is this chocolate? What on earth have they done to it?” asked Aziraphale plaintively. It tasted like sweetened, solidified oil. He tried another, but it was just as bad.

Crowley leaned back in his chair, arms behind his head, smug with satisfaction. “American chocolate,” he said smugly. “Some of my best work, that.”

They looked pretty, at least, in their little silver wrappers. Aziraphale arranged them nicely in a bowl by the front door in the hope that guests might eat them for him, and a day later he managed to offload the lot onto the few Trick-or-Treaters whose parents were willing to drive them out as far as Paradise cottage. 

Then came the morning of the ceremony itself. It was hard not to be nervous, although as Crowley pointed out, nothing was likely to go wrong that a quick miracle couldn’t fix. The dozen or so guests arrived and were milling about the greenhouse, exclaiming over the glorious stands of lush, unseasonal greenery. Aziraphale found the utter confusion radiating from the plants themselves somewhat disconcerting, but it couldn’t be helped. He waited outside in the garden with the photographer, a charming Scottish fellow of comfortable build and wonderfully affable smile, who talked about light levels as Aziraphale nodded along and tried to look as if he understood.

It was something of a relief to hear the approach of the Bentley bearing the bride and her mother, and Aziraphale made his apologies and hustled himself away into the greenhouse. 

\---

In the end, of course, the wedding went off marvellously. Silvery fairy lights festooned the orangery’s ceiling like stars, and the low afternoon light glowed through the glass. It illuminated everything it touched with an almost, but thankfully not quite, celestial glow.

Anathema was a vision of loveliness, in a satin dress like a column of silver that rippled in eddies about her feet as she walked, like waves approaching the shore. Dark ivy and constellations of baby’s breath wound through her hair and joined purple heather in her bouquet, and behind her followed a bridesmaid who looked, if anything, happier than the bride herself. Newton had scrubbed up nicely enough too, and stood waiting for her beside the officiant in a suit that almost fitted.

The officiant himself was tall, soberly attired, with an unexpectedly scruffy mop of grey-black hair, and calm air of knowing more than he let on. He conducted a ceremony both solemn and joyous.

Crowley had dressed up for the occasion, looking implausibly long and lean in a dark green satin jumpsuit with far too many buttons undone. (It had been black initially, but Aziraphale had absolutely put his foot down about wearing black to a wedding). His mane of magnificent hair was loose about his shoulders, his crimson-soled stiletto shoes left him half a foot taller than Aziraphale, and his mouth was glossy with wine coloured lipstick. It was an outfit that almost upstaged the bride, to Aziraphale’s mind, but he was hardly going to complain.

(“Wait ‘till you see what’s underneath,” Crowley had murmured, as Aziraphale’s eyes raked over the outfit earlier that day.

“Oh! Have you, um, altered your… you know. Genitalia?”

Crowley gaped at him. “No, I just, I just bought lingerie. Do you want me to? Haven’t bothered for a while, the hormones play hell for a week or two but if you want me to, I will, I can do it now.”

“Perhaps not right now,” Aziraphale demurred, aware that they had a wedding to attend, and it was time for Crowley to go and collect the bride shortly. “My darling, I only mean that I’d love you in any shape you fancied taking, and it might be fun to experiment. We should talk about it later.”

“Sure,” nodded Crowley, one eyebrow slowly rising. “Out of interest, how much do you know about snake biology?”

Aziraphale had shaken his head to indicate the answer was next to nothing, and Crowley, without further explanation, had simply swept past him down the stairs wearing an extremely large grin. They would definitely be talking about something later, it seemed.)

At the end of the wedding there was applause for the kissing, and soon enough the newlyweds were piled into the Bentley for the drive to the Governor’s Hotel, where photographs continued and Crowley could finally make a bee-line for the alcohol. If nowhere else, Anathema’s family riches were certainly on display there, the champagne on offer being so good it didn’t require even the smallest of miraculous improvements.

For the wedding breakfast Aziraphale was delighted to find himself seated next to Kay, the pink-haired librarian, who had come with Brian’s mother. The two of them were excellent company whilst on Crowley’s other side, Pepper’s mother was holding forth passionately on the subject of intersectional feminism with Crowley’s encouragement. Across the table, Pepper and Brian listened intently with occasional pauses to quietly flick peas at one another.

There were speeches, and toasts, to the Bride and Groom, the Bride’s family, the Bridesmaid and Ring Bearer, and so on and so forth. Eventually Anathema stood up, just the tiniest bit unsteady on her feet.

“Ok so it’s not traditional, but I guess everyone here was prepared for that when they turned up, so I’d like to make a toast of my own, to two of the guests here today. I have so much to thank them for, not just the beautiful venue for our ceremony, or their friendship and support, but honestly, for much, much more than that. Mr Crowley, Mr Fell, everyone here owes you more than we can ever say, and I mean that, like, really. Way more. So thank you. To Mr Crowley and Mr Fell!”

The toast was echoed by the room, with some confused muttering, and warmed by both bonhomie and champagne Aziraphale found himself rising to his feet in spite of Crowley’s outraged hissing. 

“Thank you so much!” he exclaimed. “We really are so glad to be here, I assure you. My apologies if it isn’t the done thing, I know there’s been so many toasts already, but I wonder if your guests would object to one more?”

“Go for it,” yelled Anathema, before anyone could object. 

Glancing down at Crowley, Aziraphale found his companion apparently trying to slide under the table with embarrassment. “May I, my dear?”

“Get it over with,” snarled Crowley. He was no longer holding a glass of his own, having seized the entire bottle as soon as Aziraphale had stood up. From it, Crowley took a large enough swig that he nearly choked on it, sinking ever further in his chair.

Aziraphale wrinkled his nose fondly, then addressed the crowd. It reminded him of understudying at the Globe that one time. He raised his glass, realising belatedly that there was barely a drop of champagne left in it. 

“Esteemed guests, with the Bride’s gracious permission, I shall propose one last toast,” he said. “To the world.”

The room chorused in response, with less enthusiasm this time, and sounding just a little fed up. It didn’t matter, one didn’t reach Aziraphale’s age without being accustomed to being thought a bit odd. Adam and Anathema, the ones who understood, grinned back at him. That was what mattered.

“What a lovely sentiment,” said Kay, as Aziraphale sat back down.

“It’s a rather lovely world,” he demurred, smiling.

The planet’s population had grown since Adam and Eve until it was made up of more souls than even an Angel’s mind could encompass, nearly seven billion of them, and it had always been his duty to love all of them. Yet that wasn’t quite what he meant. They were all individuals, was the point. Every single one of them was a person who mattered, but these people, in this room, were the people who mattered specifically to Aziraphale. 

Only the Almighty could love everyone in the precise detail they deserved, after all. It wasn’t as though Aziraphale intended to stop loving humanity in the general sense. He thought it might even be easier to do, now that he had particular people to love as well. He was just jolly well going to love everyone he could, as much as he could; to care both broadly and specifically from now on. It was the human way of doing things. 

He glanced over at Crowley, who was slowly re-emerging from under the tablecloth, bottle in hand, as the rest of the table returned to their conversation. Crowley even, to his surprise, smiled back, small and almost shy. 

“You know, Angel, I wasn’t sure if it would work, this move,” he said quietly, as if confiding a secret. “When I said ‘our side’ I just meant the two of us, but I think now it’s a bit bigger than that, isn’t it?”

“I rather agree,” said Aziraphale. “Do you mind it?”

“No,” said Crowley at once. “We belong. We really do, Angel. I never thought we could, not really, but look at us.”

“I’m so glad you think so too,” agreed Aziraphale, taking Crowley’s hand and squeezing it. “Oh look, dessert!”

\---

When the meal was over and the tables cleared away, Anathema and Newton managed their first dance without tripping over one another, although it hardly constituted what Aziraphale thought of as “dancing.” The two of them swayed vaguely, gazing into each other’s eyes with hopelessly soppy expressions, as Etta James sang dreamily that at last, her love had come along and life, as any rhyming dictionary might have predicted, was like a song. 

The tune finished, everyone clapped, and something rather more jaunty began to play. Substantially more jaunty, indeed, to the extent that it didn’t quite sound like music to Aziraphale’s ear. He wandered towards the bar, where Crowley had already beaten a retreat, and took a moment to seek out Wensleydale on the way. 

“May I say you look wonderful,” he said sincerely. “That dress is very much your colour, Wensley.”

“Not Wensley, not today. I’m Wendy. Actually, I might stay Wendy, I think, I’ve told my parents already, and they haven’t actually said no,” said Wendy, so happy and excited that the words bubbled out like champagne.

“Good for you,” said Crowley, appearing at his side and handing a refilled glass to Aziraphale. “Wendy Dale.” 

“Ohhh,” said Wendy, eyes wide behind the thick glasses. “Actually that might be perfect. Gosh.”

Brian bounced into view, his shirt already untucked and what looked like white cake icing in his hair. Knowing Brian, possibly it was still leftover facepaint from Hallowe’en, two days prior. “Can Wendy come with me now? She’s the best at flossing and I need her to show my cousin.”

Wendy grabbed Brian’s hand without hesitation. He pulled her out onto the dancefloor, and Aziraphale watched them go, pondering. 

“It’s very creditable, I’m sure, but I didn’t know children got so excited about oral hygiene,” he said, which for some reason Crowley found very funny indeed.

Across the room, a grey-bearded man almost as scruffy and impish as Brian brought a plateful of cake to a heavily pregnant young woman, who thanked him with an indulgent smile. A second bearded gentleman wandered past, this one tall and lanky, wearing a kilt and with several blonde young children trailing behind him like ducklings. Privately, Aziraphale couldn’t help noticing what a handsome figure the fellow made. For a human, anyway.

The whole place was awash with so much happiness and love it was intoxicating. He was just thinking about how lovely it was when Crowley seized his elbow in an unusually tight grip, dragging him out of the wide french doors onto the terrace where the photographs had been taken.

“Not now. The DJ’s asking for requests.”

“Oh!” said Aziraphale. “He might have a gavotte!”

“He doesn’t,” said Crowley very definitely. “And I just saw Shadwell on his way over there.”

A loud thudding noise began behind them and Aziraphale could just make out a repeated chorus that sounded like “Sex bomb” which surely wasn’t a thing that could actually exist. Acquiescing to Crowley’s wisdom, they stepped back out into the chill night air, the hotel’s gardens spread out before them and the village in the distance. Crowley shivered, and without thinking Aziraphale took off his jacket to drape it around his beloved’s silky shoulders, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“Perhaps we should get married,” said Aziraphale, and Crowley nearly dropped his drink, rescuing it at the last minute with a casual sneer.

“Load of human nonsense,” he said, tugging the jacket closer around himself. “Wouldn’t make any difference.”

Aziraphale considered, just a smidgeon discouraged by Crowley’s lack of enthusiasm, before an idea struck him, and he worked the Regimental signet ring from his little finger. It was a bit tricky, given that he’d never removed it since he’d replaced the last one at least a century prior, but with a little effort it came off.

“Here,” he said, taking Crowley’s left hand and slipping it onto the third finger. Crowley’s hands were far slimmer than his own, and the ring fitted rather nicely. “That works, I think.”

Crowley whipped off his sunglasses and stared down at his hand in evident shock. 

“Unless you don’t want it,” said Aziraphale.

“Shut up,” said Crowley, his voice hoarse, and drank the rest of his champagne in a single swallow, his eyes still fixed on the ring. “I’m never taking it off.” 

It was well past sunset now, the sky above them a swathe of black velvet glittered with stars. Aziraphale gazed over towards the low flat hill behind the hotel. The sky above it still seemed to be catching some last rays of sunshine, somehow, and the light was an odd colour. Almost purple.

“Crowley,” said Aziraphale. “I’m remembering something. A flat-topped hill, they used to call it a Tell, didn’t they?”

“That’s right, like Tel Meggido, the fields of Armageddon,” said Crowley, glancing up from his new jewellery, then stood up straight very suddenly. “Didn’t you say that’s where the old Governor’s house used to stand? 

“Mm,” said Aziraphale.

“So that hill. That, that would be the Governor’s Tell.”

“Yes,” said Aziraphale. “Looks a bit purple, wouldn’t you say?”

Crowley threw his empty glass into a nearby bush, growling. “I’ll get the car.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Mith, Yubi and Hoom for their encouragement and suggestions. 
> 
> (fwiw, there aren't any more explicit chapters upcoming - it's all plot from here, I'm afraid.)


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The clouds overhead began to swirl like a vortex, illuminated with spiraling lines of crackling white and violet energy, and a low peal of thunder rolled through the darkness. In the back of Aziraphale’s mind, even now, there had always been one, singular surety: that whatever happened, whatever disaster might loom, Crowley would fix it. It was the sole constant of his entire existence, and had never failed, even if for a long time he had refused to acknowledge that truth._

\---

The vertiginous height of Crowley’s stilettoes did not slow down his driving in the slightest, and the two of them hurtled recklessly through ink-dark country lanes at a speed Aziraphale did not care to consider. There was no road to the top of the hill, so Crowley threw the Bentley sideways at its base, parking his beloved car half-way into a hedge. That was when the shoes became an issue. He was out of the car in an instant, then stumbled, spiky heels sinking instantly into the ground.

A group of four winged figures stood upon the dark plateau of the hill, glowing golden against the night sky as purplish clouds gathered overhead and a spattering of rain began to fall. 

“Fuck it,” snarled Crowley, and wide black wings snapped outwards behind him. He beat them once, lifting up on the rising wind, and flew. 

Unwilling to be left behind, Aziraphale spread his likewise and took off after Crowley, a trifle uncertainly after centuries of no practice. Gusts buffeted his unkempt feathers but he managed to catch Crowley’s hand and hold it as they landed. The grass atop the hill was long and the breeze rippled through it like the surface of a pond, shimmering in golden angelic light.

Gabriel, Michael, Uriel and Sandalphon awaited them. They wore their usual earthly clothing despite the outstretched wings at their backs, and each one held a sword in their right hand. Aziraphale couldn’t help noticing all four were rather larger than his old one had been. 

Instinctively he summoned his own from home, the weight of it comforting in his hand even if it wouldn’t do much. Crowley reached across to touch the pommel lightly, and the blade ignited instantly in Hellish, smoking flame.

“Oh, good idea!” said Aziraphale, never taking his eyes from the group before them. 

“I’m full of ‘em, so I’ve been told. Listen, I love you, Aziraphale. I love you.”

“I love you too, Crowley,” Aziraphale told him, keeping his voice down as Gabriel approached. “Promise you’ll tell me again, after all this.”

A halo of warm light surrounded the Archangel Gabriel, his eyes like lamps of purple and the sword in his hand a mighty blade of gold. The shining feathers of his wings flashed in the light as the breeze moved through them, and the rain did not touch him. 

“Aziraphale, Crowley! Good of you to join us.” The Archangel paused, and chuckled. “Not that you really had a choice.” 

“Yeah, hi, can we get this over with?” drawled Crowley, tossing back his damp red curls. “Got a wedding party to get back to. Friends of ours. Alien concept for you, I’m sure.”

“So I heard! And on All Souls night, isn’t that charming? Which also means the veil between our world and theirs is that little bit thinner, of course. Seemed like a convenient time to, like you say, get this over with.”

He treated them both to his warmest, most insincere smile, and even his teeth seemed to glow. Tightly, Aziraphale gripped Crowley’s hand, and shifted his feet into a fighting stance.

Sounds rose unexpectedly from the bottom of the hill; a screech of tyres and a clattering, as if a very old and not particularly well-engineered car was being driven with tin cans tied to its bumper. 

“Wait!” screamed a distant voice that sounded awfully like Anathema’s. Aziraphale turned to Crowley in horror, then looked behind himself to see the bride and groom clambering up the hill still in their finery. The rain was now falling in earnest, and Ana slipped on the muddy ground, the flower crown falling from her head only to be scooped up by an equally muddy young boy in what had once been a smart suit.

“Adam!” yelped Crowley. “What the Heaven are you doing here?”

“We’ve come to help you,” announced Adam, scampering to grab Crowley’s free hand as the adults struggled up behind him, hampered by skirts and asthma. “I wasn’t going to let them leave me behind.”

“Together, Aziraphale, remember?” panted Anathema. Her little knitted wrap didn’t look particularly warm and she was shivering in the cold night air. She fished some house keys out of a little sequined handbag as she came to stand beside him, arranging them in her fist with the keys poking out between her fingers. 

Newton put an arm instinctively around his wife, his glasses reflecting the golden glow of the Archangel’s glory and his mouth hanging open in horror. 

“Bloody wings,” he whispered faintly. “All of them. Actual bloody wings.”

“Well, I guess the party’s all here,” shrugged Gabriel. “Be not afraid.”

“Or rather, be very afraid,” said Michael, with an icy smile. She strode up to Gabriel’s side, joined by Uriel and Sandalphon, and hefted her sword, turning the hilt in her hand. Trails of silvery light followed each movement, and the rain did not fall upon her or her colleagues any more than it did Gabriel. 

“Are you here to kill them?” asked Adam, wet hair plastered to his forehead. 

“God, no.” Gabriel pulled a face that showed exactly how ridiculous he found the question. “We’re here to kill all of you.”

Ana raised her fistful of keys. “Woah, Adam’s just a kid! You can’t kill kids!”

“You’d think,” muttered Crowley, squeezing Aziraphale’s hand a little tighter.

The clouds overhead began to swirl like a vortex, illuminated with spiraling lines of crackling white and violet energy, and a low peal of thunder rolled through the darkness. In the back of Aziraphale’s mind, even now, there had always been one, singular surety: that whatever happened, whatever disaster might loom, Crowley would fix it. It was the sole constant of his entire existence, and had never failed, even if for a long time he had refused to acknowledge that truth.

It had to be Aziraphale’s turn at some point. Once or twice, it already had been, like asking whether the Great Plan was the Ineffable Plan. Like the first time they’d kissed. He could do it. Aziraphale took a step towards Gabriel, gladly interposing himself between Heaven and the ones he loved, and gently pushed Crowley back towards the humans.

“Very well, Gabriel. If you must punish someone, surely it’s me. I’m the one who’s betrayed Heaven, aren’t I? And I’d do it again, you know, I only wish I’d done it sooner. But you can have me, if that’s what it takes. I surrender. So there isn’t any need to hurt anyone else, Gabriel, is there? Just me,” he said, then squawked loudly as Crowley seized his elbow and dragged him backwards again, sliding in the mud underfoot.

Aziraphale recovered his balance and glared. “Unhand me at once! I’m trying to _save_ you!”

“I know! It's not going to work!”

“I really don’t see how you can say that, Crowley, when you haven’t even let me try!”

“Oh, for - can we not have a domestic right now, Angel?” 

Gabriel stared between the two of them, his violet eyes now glowing so brightly they were hard to look at, and began to laugh, properly this time.

“Oh, that's cute, Aziraphale, but the snake’s right. There’s no surrendering, no saving, not for either of you. The fact is, you can’t be allowed to exist. You’re abominations, not angels and not demons.”

“I think that’s called being human,” said Adam loudly.

"Yeah, maybe not right now, Adam," muttered Crowley, still gripping tightly to Aziraphale's arm. 

“I don’t think God wants you to kill humans,” piped up Adam again, and Gabriel rounded on him irritably.

“Okay, this doesn’t concern you, kid, you’ve had your five minutes, all right? You want to know how many humans I’ve killed, me personally? I can’t even tell you, it’s that many. You’re like ants. You’re weak. You age, you die, you can’t even work miracles.” 

Adam grinned. “Haven’t you heard of Jesus?”

“Oh, he does have a point there,” ventured Aziraphale. 

“Did God tell you to do this?” asked Adam, persistent as only an 11-year old child could be.

“All right, that’s enough!” snapped Gabriel. The purple glow around him began to spark with electricity. “The failed Antichrist, a witch, the moron who literally short-circuited Armageddon, and the two fucking traitors who’ve been enabling the whole shitshow? I think I know what the Almighty would want me to do in this situation, kid!”

Newton Pulsifer cleared his throat. “A lot of humans think they know that, too,” he said shakily. “I don't think they all get it right.”

“And how can you be sure?” asked Anathema, clutching Adam tightly against her. “It’s not like it’s written. Not any more.”

“Will you all just shut up?” Gabriel spat, forks of gold and purple light crackling across his body, knuckles tightening on the hilt of his sword. He looked more eldritch than angelic, as if containing his power was becoming a struggle. Thunder rumbled again, louder this time: it was musical, strange, and wholly unearthly.

“I think it’s time,” said Uriel calmly. Her voice echoed like a chorus when she spoke, and the gold patterns across her skin had begun to pulse and shimmer, shifting like oil in water. Beside her, Sandalphon was nodding eagerly.

“Past time, if you ask me,” agreed Michael, whose hair had unbound itself from its chignon, floating upwards about her head unimpeded by the rain, as if she stood upon the ocean floor. 

Aziraphale lifted his sword, the raindrops hissing against its burning blade as the Heavenly Host advanced. He swung desperately about himself, attempting to drive them back to no avail, unable to guard every side at once, every thrust blocked with apparent ease. 

“You don’t have to do this!” shouted Aziraphale, his voice lost against the rising storm.

White and gold wings stretched out to form walls around them, enclosing them upon all four sides. Gabriel, his composure recovered, simply held out a hand.

“Kneel,” he said.

The air filled with the chime of a miracle so large and so loud it made Aziraphale’s ears ring. All at once, his body was dropped to its knees quite without his volition, and he found his head bowed, his hands splayed helpless against the cold, wet earth, his wings banished back into the ethereal plane. The flaming sword in his hand fell to the ground and fizzled out, a mere smoking length of metal beside him. He could hear the humans’ cries of horror and couldn’t comfort them. He could feel his heart still, his lungs paralyse, as if his earthly corporation had been transmuted into a lead coffin, and he was trapped within it.

“It’s been a long time since I channelled God’s power against my own kind,” said Gabriel, in a shallow imitation of regret. “Still, you remember how this goes.”

Gritting his teeth with effort, Aziraphale managed just barely to lift his gaze, but Gabriel wasn’t talking to him. He had eyes only for Crowley.

Crowley, beautiful, brave Crowley, so strong, who had managed to get back up onto one knee, though he shook all over with the strain of it, his eyes wide and yellow and glowing, his hands blackened claws that dug into the dirt. His wings had disappeared too, and the wind whipped through his hair and plastered the dark, rain-splashed satin of his clothes against his wiry body. Black tendrils of scales spread up from the open neckline towards his face and when he opened his mouth to speak, the teeth within were sharp spindles.

“Mercy,” he hissed, and even the words were clearly a struggle. “Mercy, you bastards.” 

Michael tutted and rolled her eyes. 

“All those questions,” she said coldly. “And you never learn, do you.”

Four swords lifted. Four swords fell, with a clap of thunder and a roar of righteous fury. Aziraphale screamed. It was hard to tell, but he suspected he was not the only one. He waited for the agony of permanent discorporation.

\---

And then he opened one eye cautiously, because it didn’t seem to be happening.

In fact, very little seemed to be happening, so he opened both eyes.

It was all rather unexpected.

The humans remained huddled in a tight group on the ground, apparently unharmed, with Crowley and himself in front of them. His limbs seemed still to be restrained beyond his control, although Aziraphale found he could move his eyes, and turn his head a little. The downpour had not stopped, rain beating furiously down alike upon the perfect circle of unharmed grass that surrounded their group and the scorched lines of earth that zigzagged outwards from its circumference. 

Almost the entire hill around them was no more than a blackened wasteland, smoking and charred. 

From just outside the edge of their small, protected spot, three bemused Archangels and one angel stared down at them. It was a miracle, and a considerable one, at that. 

“You?” asked Aziraphale, looking over towards Crowley with effort. 

“Lot bigger than me,” hissed Crowley, shaking his head. He still appeared more demonic than human, though the transformation appeared to have halted for now. 

“That’s… impossible,” said Uriel.

.  
\--  
\---

A Voice speaks from no apparent source. 

It’s quiet, but Aziraphale can tell from the faces around him that every one of them hears it.  
The Voice is warm and female, with a faintly American accent, and sounds almost amused, but there’s a sadness to it also.  
A deep, abiding sadness, and no hesitation at all.

**“You bad Angels,” **  
says God, and the bolt of lighting

strikes  
\---  
\--  
.

This time it was whiteness that washed over them, a radiance so bright it was like an absence of any light at all, and with it came a wave of deafening silence. Everything was sensation, waves of unimaginable power rolling over them like freezing fire, like dying and being born all at once. It lasted only a second, but Aziraphale hadn’t felt anything like this since Creation, and it was hard to imagine how the humans could bear it. Ineffable, thought Aziraphale vaguely, blinking his way back to vision, finding himself curled into a protective ball, and relieved beyond measure to discover his limbs once again under his own control.

The night was calm as he sat up, brushing his hands down his waistcoat and wondering what exactly had just happened. The supernatural storm had vanished, and a crescent moon shone out clear amongst the stars of the night sky, illuminating the dead hillside and their circle of grassy sanctuary in simple moonlight.

There was no sign of the three Archangels. Sandalphon alone remained, staring at the smoking patches of ground where all three of his bosses had recently stood, his white wings sagging behind him. Not so much as a last, drifting golden feather could be seen. 

“Where did they go?” asked Ana, sounding quavery. Newton was helping her to her feet, and even Adam looked pale.

“I don’t think they went… anywhere,” said Aziraphale, and noted with distant interest that his own voice was a mite unsteady also.

Crowley pushed the wet hair back from his face and nodded thoughtfully, pulling his ridiculous shoes off as he stood and throwing them aside, hopelessly caked in dirt. The scales were receding from his skin, melting back into a form as ordinary and human as it had ever been, which was to say: not especially.

“Now that,” he announced, “is what I call a Deus ex Machina. Fuck me.”

Newton pointed over at Sandalphon. “What about him?”

The last remaining member of the avenging celestial forces did not look particularly angelic at that moment. Mud had had the audacity to splatter up the hems of his trousers and spats, rain was running down his face, and the soggy ribbon at his neck drooped sadly. He still held a sword in his grip, though he didn’t seem to be aware of it, and when he looked up, his expression was as discombobulated as Aziraphale had ever seen it.

“I.. I think I have to go,” he said, still as nasal as ever. “I think I have to talk to the Metatron.”

“Oh, yeah, that’ll work. Good idea,” said Crowley, resting one hand on his hip, sarcasm dripping from every word.

“Perhaps you should await further instructions. Real ones, this time,” said Aziraphale encouragingly. “She spoke to you before, after all. When you were Elijah, and Enoch.”

A visible shiver passed over the angel’s face at the thought of Her speaking to him again, and he eyed the three smoking patches on the ground.

“Yes,” he agreed, nodding hesitantly. “We cannot presume to know Her Will. Clearly.” 

“Ineffable,” said Crowley, with something close to a straight face.

The angel Sandalphon, once the prophet Elijah, made no move to go. He looked lost.

“Toodle pip, then?” ventured Aziraphale.

Sandalphon glanced upwards, to a clear night sky once again glittering with stars. “Metatron?” he called. “Are you there, brother?”

A silvery-white light enveloped him, and the angel sagged with relief. His feet lifted from the floor and he rose up into the shaft of light. “Yes. Um, toodle pip.”

“Don’t come back,” called Crowley.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” said Sandalphon with feeling, and was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Climax? Anticlimax? Who can say, really?


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Anathema was chewing her lip. “You know, you call him Angel. But you’re not an Angel and a Demon any more. So what are you?”_
> 
> _“Honestly, Book Girl, your guess is as good as ours,” said Crowley, a little snappishly. “It’s all uncharted territory out here now. In fact your guess might even be better, so if you’ve got any prophetic insights, let’s hear them.”_

\---

It seemed the simplest and most sensible thing not to go back to the wedding afterwards. Instead, they drove to Paradise Cottage, and Aziraphale made hot cocoa for everyone, with a large stiffener of brandy for the adults. Without discussion, the five of them all drifted outside to sit in the garden, under the clear cold skies, wrapped in blankets and not talking very much. 

There was no sign here that any storm had been over, the grass no more damp than on any night, but in the air still hung a sharp scent of ozone, of petrichor, and a feeling as if something had been cleansed at last. It was as if some old stain upon the world had lifted, and a new page turned, fresh and clean. The question of what to write upon it seemed too large to contemplate yet.

Anthony the fox, unconcerned with such metaphysical considerations, squeezed under the garden gate and trotted up brazenly for his usual biscuits. With a weary click of his fingers Aziraphale miracled some up, paying no mind to the stutters of shock from Newton as he did so. The fox didn’t seem to mind, crunching his way through the meal before ambling over to the apple tree and settling down to sleep.

And then one of the rabbits that lived under the buddleia hopped out, utterly fearless, and silently lay down beside him.

“Look at that!” breathed Anathema, suddenly tense with astonishment.

All three humans seemed spellbound by the scene, and Aziraphale smiled to see it. He’d seen the rabbits cavort without fear around Anthony before now, the fox being far too well-fed and contented to bother chasing them, but to see them sleep beside one another was new. 

“Heavy handed with the metaphor, there,” Crowley muttered. “Any more brandy?”

His eyes alight with fascination, Adam stood up, shedding his blanket slowly and carefully, and began inching his way across the grass towards the animals. Aziraphale summoned the brandy bottle from the kitchen to top everyone else up.

“Not me, not if I’m driving,” said Newton. “Thank you.”

“For everything,” added Anathema, holding up her mug for a refill. “And um. Sorry too, I guess.”

Aziraphale blinked at her. He was far too exhausted to discern her meaning. “Sorry, my dear? Whatever for?”

Anathema shrugged, cocooned in tartan wool, and her shoulders drooped again. She looked just as tired as the rest of them, her fancy hairdo now lopsided and in disarray, and the black makeup around her eyes rather smeared. It didn’t detract in the slightest from the deep happiness that radiated from her, and she leaned into Newton’s arm around her shoulder with a small smile tugging at her lips. “Ugh, I don’t even know. I mean it all seems like it worked out, but you knew those guys, didn’t you? And God like… literally smote them? That was God, right?”

“Been a while since we spoke, but yes, I think it was,” said Aziraphale. It felt very peculiar to say it out loud. 

“Yup,” agreed Crowley, staring into his cocoa.

“Isn’t that, I don’t know, kind of weird?”

“Unprecedented, I should say.” Aziraphale leaned over the back of the bench to drop his empty mug onto the grass and took a swig directly from the brandy bottle instead. 

“Non-intervention for six millenia and then turns up just long enough to smite precisely three specific arseholes,” said Crowley. He stretched his arms over his head and yawned wide enough that his jaw appeared to unhinge for a moment. “Definitely her, all the same. Credit where it’s due. Could’ve moved a bit sooner for my money but then, we’ve never exactly seen eye-to-eye. Pass that bottle over, Angel.”

“Crowley,” admonished Aziraphale, although his heart wasn’t really in it. 

He still couldn’t quite take in what had happened. Whatever he had expected, actual Divine Intervention hadn’t even been in the vicinity of the list. God’s Will be done, and in this case, She had even had the generosity to do it Herself. There would be no more unexpected reviews from Gabriel. No more unexpected celestial punches in the stomach, or ill-concealed snickers of mockery, or patronising judgements on his competence. 

Perhaps that would make sense eventually, with enough prayer and consideration, but Aziraphale rather doubted it.

As of this moment, three of the four original Archangels no longer existed, and the fourth had his bare, muddy feet in Aziraphale’s lap and was leaving lipstick marks on the neck of a bottle of brandy. They didn’t have to worry about Hell any more, and now they didn’t have to worry about Heaven either. They were safe, and they could love one another, and the humans they loved best were safe, and there didn’t actually appear to be anything that needed to be worried about for the foreseeable future. That really was new.

Anathema was chewing her lip. “You know, you call him Angel. But you’re not an Angel and a Demon any more. So what are you?”

“Honestly, Book Girl, your guess is as good as ours,” said Crowley, a little snappishly. “It’s all uncharted territory out here now. In fact your guess might even be better, so if you’ve got any prophetic insights, let’s hear them.”

“I think it means we’re free,” said Aziraphale. He reached out to take Crowley’s hand, and smiled at the little blooming warmth of love that spread out from the touch. 

Crowley looked over at him, eyebrows raised. His hair was beginning to dry from the rain, falling into unkempt loose ringlets of warm copper, and the faint glow of his golden eyes was impossibly soft and pretty. When he spoke again, his voice was low and private.

“I can call you something else if you want, it hasn’t been a title for years, Angel. You know that, don’t you?”

“I know, darling, and of course I don’t want you to stop. I like being your Angel much more than I ever liked being Heaven’s.”

Crowley’s smile was pure joy. On instinct, they both leaned forward into a kiss, flavoured with chocolate and brandy and just a little with dirt and ashes, and surely, thought Aziraphale, as Crowley made a faint, hungry noise and Aziraphale gathered him into his arms, no-one could blame them if it became a little more heated than intended. It occurred to him that Newton and Anathema weren’t the only newlyweds in this garden, and they certainly hadn’t waited 6,000 years for it.

Anathema giggled, and Newton finished up his cocoa with an audible gulp. 

“Yes, well, we should probably head home, Ana,” he said, slightly too loud. “If we leave it any longer I’ll fall asleep at the wheel. Might be time we got Adam back to his house, too.”

“Shit, you’re right,” said Anathema, fishing around in her tiny silver handbag again. “I’ll call his mom, hold on, you tell him we’re going.”

“I’ll do that,” said Aziraphale, untangling himself from Crowley reluctantly. It would get them alone together that much the sooner, after all.

\---

Adam had been stroking Anthony and the rabbit while the grownups talked, and was crouched over them still. He looked lost in thought, as if he was listening to something no-one else could hear. 

“Adam?” asked Aziraphale as he approached, as quietly as he could. “Bedtime, I think.”

“Can you hear Her?” asked the boy, not looking up.

Aziraphale listened, frowning in confusion. “Not now,” he said. “I heard Her before. Can you?”

Adam put his head on one side. “Oh. No, I think She’s gone now.”

“Yeah, sounds like Her,” said Crowley, joining them. “Looks like you made friends with Anthony and Harry, there.” 

“She was telling me things, just now,” said Adam, watching his own hand as it moved over the sleeping rabbit’s soft fur. “She said it’s not really over, it’s just… time to try again. There’s going to be new miracles, and new everything. And one day, ages away, she’s going to send a new Saviour. I won’t meet him, but you two will. You’re going to be there.”

“How wonderful,” said Aziraphale instinctively. In truth, it was rather more news than he could handle just at present, but he was willing to be optimistic. “I can hardly wait.”

Crowley bent to kiss his temple. “Don’t know about that. Pretty sure we can keep busy until then.”

Adam looked up at last, at Crowley, and got to his feet. “She said she was proud of you. She said she’d given you a gift, but She didn’t say what it was. She’s proud of both of you, I think. And me. She loves us, doesn’t she?”

“Yes,” said Aziraphale, and meant it. “I believe She does.”

\---

It was the early hours of morning by the time the humans left. There were more kisses, of a slow and languorous kind, and a suggestion of going indoors that evaporated on contact with the thought of standing up. Crowley lay back quietly in Aziraphale’s arms on their garden bench and they passed the bottle of brandy between them in companionable silence. It remained conveniently half full until they found themselves watching the sun come up. 

“All things considered,” said Aziraphale, “I think that went quite well.”

“All things considered,” agreed Crowley, taking a deep swig and wiping his mouth on a ruined satin sleeve. “Must be getting competent in our old age.”

Azriaphale hummed in cautious agreement. “Lovely wedding, too.”

Crowley lifted his left hand to examine the golden celestial ring there. “Yeah,” he conceded. “It was nice. All that love washing around.”

“Do you mean you could feel it too?”

“I think, yeah, I can a bit, these days. Your influence, or whatever all these changes have been. Makes me wonder if you’re feeling more hate, though. You aren’t, are you?”

“Not more, no. I always could feel it, but I think Angels feel everything. How wonderful that you can feel love again, my dear.”

Crowley snorted. “Eh, whatever.” He was still looking at his new jewellery, however, with a rather soft expression. 

Aziraphale relieved him of the brandy bottle and took a drink himself. 

“Still think the next one will be Us against Them?” he asked. The “us” and “them” were different now, of course, which gave him a secret thrill as he said it aloud.

“No,” said Crowley, drawing out the word thoughtfully, as if it surprised even him. “I don’t know about you, but I’m beginning to think She doesn’t really like wars. Hasn’t been one since the beginning, if you think about it, and we do seem to keep sidestepping the next potential kick-off.” He grinned up at Aziraphale. “Be funny if She got it wrong too. If She didn’t know what She was doing, just crossing Her fingers and trying things out.”

There was a pause.

“You know,” said Aziraphale. “I don’t think that would be funny at all.”

Crowley pouted, clearly unwilling to concede the point. He reached up a hand and made grabby motions for the bottle. “No sense of humour.”

Aziraphale passed it back. “There’s one thing still bothering me, though.” 

Crowley made a noise of questioning largely muffled by the bottle in his face.

“What Anathema said. Whichever side we’re on now, we aren’t actually humans, are we? We may not be Angels, or Demons either, but I don’t see how we can simply have become humans with miraculous powers, like Ana or Adam. And if what Adam said about meeting the Saviour is true, it doesn’t sound like we have to worry about aging, or death. Or digestion.” He shuddered at the thought. “But we’re not… I mean, we simply aren’t made like them, are we?”

Resting his cheek against Aziraphale’s chest, his curved nose pressed into the warmth of Aziraphale’s neck, Crowley pondered for a moment. “You were a Guardian once, weren’t you? Seems as good a name as any. I could work with that, too. Guardians. Of the world.”

“I suppose. No small job, with only two of us.”

“Ah, but, Angel, isn’t that the point? Adam putting things back the way they were hasn’t made anything better. Economic equality, political division, it’s all about as bad as it’s ever been, and getting worse from what I see. Fixing it is on all of us. Now that we’re, y’know. An Us, not a Them.” 

Aziraphale sighed. “You’re right, of course. It’s going to take some getting used to. All the same, what I meant was more... Well. You know.”

Crowley nodded, setting down the bottle, which was beginning to empty at last. He stood, and held out a hand to pull Aziraphale to his feet as well. Hands clasped, they stood facing one another in the pink light of dawn. A songbird or two had begun their morning yell, or were thinking about doing so, and a squirrel darted along the apple tree’s branches.

“Only one way to be sure,” said Crowley.

Aziraphale nodded, fear rising in his throat. 

He closed his eyes and felt his way out into the ether where his wings were stowed, and tried, tentatively, to draw them back from wherever Gabriel had banished them. The weight in his shoulders shifted, and he felt the lengthening span as they unfurled, stretching out behind him. He could feel his connection to the world beyond this one, just as strong as it had ever been. Perhaps even stronger. It was as if he was drifting amidst an ocean, wide enough to encompass everything, instead of on a river pulled in only one direction. It was like being part of the symphony, instead of listening to it. It was like a wonderful yawn and stretch after a long sleep, and the most glorious relief he could remember feeling in some time. 

“Oh, thank goodness,” sighed Aziraphale, opening his eyes. And gasped.

Crowley’s wings gleamed, burnished in the light of sunrise, a glorious fiery gold. He saw Aziraphale’s face and drew them back in, curling them around his shoulders to see what the matter was.

“Oh,” he said, awestruck. “My wings. My ones.” 

“Her gift to you, I imagine. How lovely,” said Aziraphale, reaching a hand towards the shimmering feathers. “How beautiful, Crowley. Oh, I do miss having them out. Do you remember, back at the beginning? You could get away with it occasionally back then.”

“Maybe it’ll be like that again,” said Crowley, stroking along his gleaming primaries with such wonder it made Aziraphale’s heart soar. “Shit, I don’t want to put these away, Angel, look at them.”

“I am, I am looking. I think they’re marvellous, darling.”

“I mean, if Adam’s right, and we’re starting over. Who knows what could happen?”

“Not me,” said Aziraphale. “Not anyone, I should think. Ineffable, and all that.” 

“I wonder if you can have sex and fly at the same time,” said Crowley, frowning suddenly, and Aziraphale giggled.

“Worth a try,” he said, and kissed him. It was a good question, and he was just getting a few ideas when Crowley suddenly pulled back.

“Hang on,” said Crowley urgently. “What do my eyes look like?”

“Like your eyes,” said Aziraphale, gazing into their golden depths, the thin stroke of blackest ink within, and doing his best not to swoon too much at their beauty. “The same as they’ve always looked, to me. They haven’t changed.”

“Oh,” said Crowley. He grimaced. “Do you still like them?”

“Very much. They’re beautiful. You’re beautiful. I love you, Crowley my darling.”

“Well,” said Crowley, leaning back into the kiss as the sun crested the hills behind them. “That’s all right then.”

\---

It ends, as it began, in a garden. Some things have to end, like books, with a final page turned and a neatly completed story to look back on.

Some things don’t. Sometimes, you take the end of the last story and plant it to grow a new one, entirely different and yet the same, like a tree.

Even if it takes 6,000 years to realise that. It’s worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~FIN~
> 
> I want to thank, again, all the people who have helped me with this story, and all the people who have commented or kudos'd. You the real MVPs.
> 
> Come and bother me on Tumblr, if you like: [Kitty Dorkling](http://www.https://kittydorkling.tumblr.com/)


End file.
